Vesti la Giubba
by Rogue Hellsing
Summary: With the Joker holding the people of Gotham in a captive thrall, the way of life in the city is changing at a breakneck speed. It seems, however, that for an average, disenfranchised, young woman, nothing ever changes... or does it? Set in a range of time from pre-TDK to post-TDK. JokerxOC, T for suggestive themes and a few strong swear words, so be advised. c:
1. Recitar, mentre preso dal delirio

**Recitar, mentre preso dal delirio**

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**Author's Note:** Just a forewarning, this fanfiction is in a slightly different direction than most others. Instead of your average, wealthy relative to Bruce Wayne, or childhood friend of the Joker's, this is a completely different take on what a makeshift romance could look like with the Joker. Also, I am very, VERY fond of anagrams, inside jokes and allusions in my writings, and if you pay attention, you will find this story to be twice as humourous, if you're willing to look. I hope you enjoy!

**P.S.** I don't own any of the material that's found in this chapter, which includes Batman and anyone or anything related to DC Comics.

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Gotham City was always dark.

Even when the sun was shining, the filth from the people clouded the sun that glinted off the window panes of the forest of skyscrapers.

The rich liked to believe that Gotham City was a good place, liked to make believe that in their reclusive alcoves in the upper district, there was no crime, no fear.

No pain.

Then again, these civilized folk, they'd deny the existence of the people who lived in the Narrows. Weary, ragged, often homeless and impoverished people who hardly inked out a living from a day to day basis.

People like that were a stain on their reputation.

As was the Red Light district.

All of Gotham would whole heartedly deny the existence of such a place. Prostitution was illegal.

But it thrived in Gotham.

Only in a city so full to the brim of degenerate people could you find such activity thriving so well. Politicians, businessmen, judges, criminals, conmen and everyday men flocked in droves on a nightly basis. The business was thriving more than the city's economy. Despite being the fuel for this machine, the women who worked there were ignored.

Ostracized.

It was as if they didn't even exist in society. The lucky ones managed to pull it in with the mob, making a living as a mob harlot. But even then, that was hardly an existence. Underperform one night, and you're dead the next.

Isolated, disenfranchised, often homeless, Gotham's politics, criminals and heroes didn't matter to a street walker.

No, they rarely were top of the list.

Survival. That was the only thing that mattered.

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Vague rays of light filtered in through drawn shades, painting the washed out room a drab shade of grey. The air was still, minuet particles of dust hanging suspended, waiting for something to stir. A thin layer of dirt coated the sparse furniture in the room, the scent of mildew and the rank stench of body odour was suffocating.

Something moved.

"Get out." Letta Barzel awoke with a start, stumbling out from the thin covers that blanketed her trembling frame, the covers catching her ankle, sending her to the floor in a heap.

"I said get out, you filthy whore!" A tangled mess of a man arose from the bed, mud coloured eyes smouldering with hate. Curls of chest hair descended his sagging chest and slight beer belly, the line of his hair taking her eyes to a place that sagged more. She quickly shut her eyes in disgust. The older ones were always the worst in the morning. Her eyes opened just in time for her mind to register a wad of cash being thrown in her face.

"Leave." The words were spat with such disdain; she was surprised they didn't burn through the floor. With a weak bob of her head, she leaned out, grabbing the ratty grey sweatshirt that she had worn and pulled it over her head, then scooped the crumpled cash into her arms and staggered out the door, her thin legs trembling faintly from the night before. He had been rough, that was for sure. Sighing, she limped out from the cramped hotel room, exhaustion evident in her dragging step. A bit down the hallway, she happened across what she hoped was a bathroom, and sagged against the door.

It all but fell open, the rusted hinges screaming loudly as light streamed into the cloud of dust that had stirred from the dank tile floor.

It took more than a few moments for her to register the face from within the mirror. He _had _been rough. Blotchy, purpled bruises spread in an angry snarl from just above the nape of her neck all the way to – she yanked the sweater off at this point – to her navel. The older ones were the worst in the morning and the most ruthless at night. Dark scratches wound their way around her ribs and her legs, clear pus oozing from a few. With a tired sigh, she turned around, mentally wincing, to see what damaged had been done to her backside. Tentatively she opened her eyes. And immediately shut them. Pulled on her sweater. Walked out.

Tottering slightly, the wad of crinkled bills clutched tightly in her hand, Letta stumbled along the shadowed alleyway, leaning heavily against crevassed wall, her vacant senses hardly registering the thick stench of cigarette smoke that permeated every cobbled stone on the floor, trailing her like a ghost. Dumpsters, spilling over with decaying waste also contained scraps of humans, frail skeletons of men, women and children trying to scavenge for what little bits of edible material that could be found. Of course, the ever present hum of cars and the snarls of raging smart-dressed men in business suits could always be heard above the immediate clatter in the narrow street.

Her feet dragged her through a small intersection, all but oblivious to the immediate blare of a horn accompanied by a furious string of Italian curses that flew out the window of the car that screeched around the corner, a small wave of sewer water spraying out from under the thin tires.

Gotham City was filthy.

The streets.

The buildings.

The inhabitants.

All rotten to the core.

There. The peeling paint of the homeless shelter door. She hated the place, the fake smiles, the pity charity and the rich snobs in it just to look good for the public. At this point, she didn't care, though. Battered and beaten through and through, any bed, even a mat on hard, tile floor, sounded good. Like the doors on most places in Gotham, it all but fell open. This place couldn't be called "safe", per se, but it was better than the exposed streets. Most criminals had the dignity to avoid the shelter, as most had once slept under its roof and sympathized with the inhabitants.

Sinking down onto a thin mat with a heavy sigh, the chill from the floor already starting to seep into her trembling frame, Letta looked around, hoping with a faint desperation that someone who had been there earlier had left behind clothing. For once, she was in luck. Seizing the dusty pair of sweatpants off the floor, she gave them a quick once-over. There were holes gnawed by moths and dark stains that probably were blood, but they were _pants._ It hardly took a few seconds for her to put them on. They were several sizes too large, but the thin fabric was oddly comforting against her skin. The cold slightly alleviated, she turned and counted out the bills that still were in her hand.

A solid one hundred dollars.

Granted, it was nowhere near the agreed three-fifty, but it was still significantly better than what she normally got paid. It would be enough for a decent meal for the next few days, and maybe a book, if she was lucky. The thin girl let her head slump back against the stone walls, her eyelids slipping shut as she made up a mental checklist of things to do.

_I should probably stop by Rita's sometime soon. Just to make sure she hasn't stolen anything. And then, get some food for us. Probably should check the news at some point. _

The news wasn't exactly a priority in her line of work, but it was often helpful to know what was going on. Gotham's criminals were unpredictable, just like the government. The news often dictated who she would be running into at night, thus deeming it wise to be aware of these things.

With a sigh she opened her eyes. The interior of the shelter was blanket by shadows, a welcome blessing that obscured her, along with many of the inhabitants, from prying eyes. The few places where the dim light from the flickering bulbs reached often were avoided at all costs. No one here wanted to be found. The ache that had settled into her bones was beginning to get the best of her. Though her mind was whirling, sleep couldn't be deterred much longer. A resigned sigh slipped through her cracking lips and she sank down onto the mat, numbly wishing for a blanket. Her body groaned at this action, her muscles already stiff. Come morning, she would be in a world of pain.

Right before closing her eyes, she noticed a very odd, out-of-place object.

A sock.

A single sock laying on the floor, not five feet from where she lay.

Brilliantly chequered in hues or orange, purple and green, it lay on the floor, discarded.

A splash of colour in a dull grey world.

She was asleep before she knew it.

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**End note:** Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and please stick with the story! Reviews are very much appreciated, as well!


	2. Non so più quel che dico

**Non so più quel che dico**

**Author's Note: **Still getting the entire plot for this story set in stone, but I think I know where it's going to go… so please bear with me? A little note for fun, all the OC names in this story are anagrams or play-on-words of Italian terms… some are significantly easier than others, but if you can figure them out, it makes the story a lot more _humorous_. C; (That was your hint, by the way.)

**P.S. **I don't own Batman or anything related to DC Comics, so my apologies if I say something that's copyrighted.

**P.P.S. **Reviews would be absolutely wonderful, a thank you to MidnightFedora for taking time out to leave a comment. C;

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The faint wail of police sirens dragged Letta out from her comatose state. A muffled groan escaped her chapped lips. She tried to open her eyes, only to find them seemingly glued shut by gunk and dirt that had accumulated over the night. There was no point in trying to rub it off, either. The mat, being the gloriously comfortable and relaxing bed that it was, had caused her muscles to stiffen to near the point of immobility. She definitely should have stayed with Rita, instead.

Giving up on her eyes temporarily, the girl decided to resign herself to listening to the activity around her. The sirens had faded to the point of being nearly mute in the background, replaced by the steady drone of car engines and murmurs of people walking past the shelter. Inside, however, an odd quiet had descended the place, unusual for how frequented the shelter was. _A welcome relief, _she decided, not wanting to try to negotiate with potential customers or drunkards.

There was a shuffling sound in the corner, who she guessed to either be the resident rats or the wizened man with the wispy white beard who occasionally slumped by the door, the small tin cup void of any form of change. Regardless, as long as she would be left alone, Letta didn't mind either's existence. The dull ache that had grated against her bones when she awoke gnawed at the back of her mind, the blunt teeth becoming sharper with each passing minute. She knew she had little time to start moving before it became unbearable.

The faint moan that pushed itself past her lips was more of a whimper and she forced her bony arms to moves, her jointed fingers pawing at her eyes. After a minute (It could have been a lot longer, she wasn't sure.) enough grime had been cleared, and light filtered into the crevasse between her eyelids. She had never been more grateful for the ability of the shelter to keep out the majority of the outside light. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the remaining clutter from her eyes, all while attempting to adjust her eyes to the light of her surroundings.

It was the old man. And a few rats. So she had been close. She vaguely registered her hands sliding across the stone floor until she was able to prop herself up. Using what little strength she had, she sagged against the wall and began her recovery 'ritual', as she so called it. Her hands found her ankle, and starting there, rubbed her thumbs in small circles, doing so repeatedly until she felt the stiff, taut skin loosen enough to move. She continued up her legs from there.

It could have been hours for all she cared, but she was finally loose enough to move adequately. _Time to find Rita, and hopefully, all my stuff._ Grunting with exertion, she staggered to her feet, stars dancing in front of her eyes as blood rushed to her head. She leaned against the wall, blinking rapidly as she waited for her head to clear. It was time to go. She'd lingered here for too long. She took a few tentative steps forward, checking after each step that she wasn't going to be hit by sudden waves of dizziness. After she decided that she would be alright, she made her way forward, carefully picking out a path between the thin mats that littered the floor. It was once she arrived at the entrance that she paused. There it was. The funny, oddly coloured pattern of green and purple checkers. The sock was on the thin, veined leg of the frail man. His skin hung over the edges of the sock just slightly, the spider webs of blue veins branching out from under it. She blinked once as she realized that she had been unabashedly staring, and now the man's milky blue eyes were fixed on her face.

"Want to know how I got it?" His voice was ragged and slight, fitting his build. Letta shook her head abruptly and muttered an apology before hurrying out the door. If Gotham could teach a person anything, it was that one should always mind their own business and never stare. Never stare.

The street was freezing beneath her bare feet; the years she had spent out here still hadn't accustomed her to it. Ignoring the puddles and the garbage that cluttered the streets, she wove her way through the throngs of tattered people, revelling in the comfort of anonymity that the crowds brought her. Her feet were near the point of falling off when she reached a familiar portion of the red light district. It wasn't much longer until she found herself pushing open the door to Apartment 52844.

The smell of musk and cigarette smoke hit her like a tidal wave and washed over her senses, flooding out all others. The dingy apartment never changed, the faded comforter on the bed was still a rumpled mess, the TV headset remained slightly askew in a poor attempt to garner some form of reception. The various cosmetics continued to spill out from the mildew drenched bathroom. This place was the closest thing she had to home. A loud bang followed by a grunt came as a familiar figure tumbled out from the bathroom.

"Oi! This is my damn apartment! If you want some sex, yer gonna have to..." Letta stifled a small giggled as the tall woman realized who was in her small flat. "Letta!" The woman flung her arms around her smaller friend. "Damn, ragazza*, I thought I'd never see you again!" She let herself giggle now. Tall and blessed with a body that raked in cash, Rita was pure Italian, through and through. Though she had grown up on the streets of Gotham, she spoke the language more than English, and it often bled into her English as well. From the half done makeup and the fact that she was in a bra and a skirt, it was apparent that she was going out to work again.

"I got a customer that wanted a repeat experience. For a few days." She shrugged vaguely. Rita shook her head, turning swiftly and walked back into the bathroom to finish dressing.

"I'm sorry, ragazza*, I have to go out tonight." She said after a long silence, pausing momentarily. "I haven't taken your stuff. It was hard not to, you ought to be proud of me. Oh, and there's food in the fridge." Oh, in addition to being a mob whore, Rita was also a kleptomaniac. Living with her was always interesting. Letta said her thanks, unable to keep the smile out of her voice and plopped down on the spring bed, turning to rummage through the nightstand in search of one of her books. Her hands closed around the battered spine of one of her favourites, Heidegger's "Being and Time". She chuckled softly. _Old habits die hard._ With a faint shrug, she immersed herself in the printed text. She hardly noticed the door close with a faint slam as Rita left.

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**P.P.P.S. **More fun stuff, for those of you with phones, look at Apartment 52844. It might be humorous if you can figure it out. C;

*ragazza is Italian for 'girl'

For those who don't know, Heidegger is a philosopher. What does this mean for our story? You'll have to see! Thanks for reading. C:


	3. E quel che faccio

**E quel che faccio**

**Author's Note: **Bear with me here, I know the Joker hasn't made an appearance yet, he will soon, I promise. I'm trying to set the stage. This isn't going to be one of the fanfictions where the Joker falls head over heels at first glance. No, love is a bit...stranger for Letta and the Joker, when it finally occurs. However, as I love anagrams and subtle allusions, there will be plenty of references to the Joker in all the chapters, there were at least...four, last chapter, if I counted right. See if you can find them all! The end of the chapter will tell you how many there were.

**P.S****_._** I, once again, do not own anything in the DC verse, nor do I own any of the books or material that may be referenced in this chapter. Just so you know. So don't sue me.

**P.P.S. **Reviews make for a happy writer...

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"For manifestly you have long been aware of what you mean when you use the expression 'being'. We, however, who used to think we understood it, have no become perplexed". _Plato. Sophistes. Also in Being and Time. Completely contradictory of Nietzsche. What does it mean to be as opposed to what is the point in being. How poetic. _

Letta hummed softly to herself as she turned another page over, the well worn paper crinkling under her fingers. How many times had she read this before? Ten, twenty, thirty times? She was fairly sure it was more than that. A thought caught her and she quickly fished through her pockets until she recovered the wad of twenty dollar bills. A deep seeded craving for philosophy was etched into her bones. New material was a necessity, and her appetite for Nietzsche was ravenous. She stripped out of her sweatshirt and sweatpants in a few seconds, yanking on a pair of worn, ripped jeans and wrapping herself in one of Rita's 'borrowed' trench coats and a pair of torn sneakers. An unassuming outfit. Aiming for discretion was a top priority in a city like Gotham.

She breezed through the door to the apartment, halfway down the stairs before rushing back up to lock it. Not that a lock would stop anyone who wanted to break in from getting in, but it was a comforting thought. She turned then and darted down the stairs and rounding the corner at a breakneck speed. Near the corner of 8th street, nestled between two skyscrapers, was Letta's favourite place in Gotham City, a quiet haven away from the chaos and clamour of the outside. "Fifty Cent Books", it was called. The entire shop could fit into Rita's apartment as it sat, overlooked by the general populace.

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After a brisk, fifteen-minute walk, she found herself opening the door, hearing the ding of the bell become muffled in the stale air. The smell of old parchment engulfed the place, accompanied by the faint undertones of mildew and dust. The single window that sat at the front of the store provided more light that the flickering bulbs that were haphazardly screwed into the ceiling. But that was easily overlooked. There were books. Books everywhere. Stacked into towers, or strewn in careless lumps on the floor. Some spilled out from the warped bookcases that lined the walls of the room; others were neatly lined up with no semblance to order in the names or genre. The rigidity left her frame with a heavy sigh. Safe. Her legs folded beneath her and she sank down to her knees near the back. She had begun to rummage through the thick pile, intent on finding herself some Nietzsche.

"Well, do ya want to know how I got it or not?" With a startled yelp, she jumped up and whirled around. Slumped in a chair by the entrance, behind the front desk, was none other than the same beggar she had encountered earlier that morning. She noted that he still wore the single sock. Meeting his glazed eyes, she shook her head and muttered that she would rather not. He let out a cackle at that, his bony body shaking with the effort. Letta jumped at that. His laugh was two granite stones being grated against each other. Hideous.

"Doll, yer too much fun." The grating sound continued as he shook his head. "The name's Bard. Bard Feo. Yer one of them street walkers, ain't ya?" Letta allowed her brows to knit into a glare.

"I am. Aren't you a jobless beggar?" The man laughed even harder at that.

"Actually, m'dear, I own this place." The raucous laughter continued. Letta squirmed.

"Do you have _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_?" She asked, after a long pause. He leered at her.

"Only if you listen to m'story." She wrinkled her nose at that, but relented.

"Righty then, y'see, there was a funny young man in here th'other day. I couldn't see his face, 'e was wearin' one of them jackets to it hid 'is face, 'n a scarf, too. Anywho, 'e was just standin' there, doin' absolutely nothin'. I walked up to 'im 'n said '_Sir, may I help ya?'_ 'n he turns around so fast, I reckon the devil was after 'im. I still couldn't see him face, but 'e started laughing like the devil, 'n said that 'e didn't need no one's help no more. So I let 'im do 'is thing, 'n soon 'e leaves, after laughin' 'bout somethin'. Hey, don't give me that look, this story ain't over yet. 'N so 'e leaves 'n I'm standin' there. So, I leave 'n decide to make some extra money –"

"You mean begging." She cut in, her voice laced with vivid scepticism. He leered at her again.

"I said I was makin' some extra money 'n then I see 'im again! 'E's jus' standin' there, doin' absolutely nothin'. Y'know the little cafe 'cross from tha' shelter ya like so much? 'E was jus' standin' in front of it. Then e' looks at me. It was like 'e was starin' straight through me 'n into my heart. So 'e walks over 'n I still can't see 'is face, but I can hear 'im smiling 'n he asks me why I ain't smiling, so I say I'm cold. He laughs again, and pulls out these funny socks from 'is pocket and tosses one a' me. Says that giving me both would be too unfair 'n predictable, or somethin' like tha'." At this point, the story was too bizarre to not be true. "'N with that, 'e was gone." Letta blinked.

"Do you have _Thus Spoke Zarathustra?"_ The man threw back his head and laughed, the lines of his forehead becoming more pronounced valleys, the gaping maw showing off a set of slightly yellowed teeth with a few missing here and there.

"I do, it's near the back, th' third shelf up, secon' bookcase from the righ'." Letta nodded meekly and shuffled to the back, sneezing as she brushed dust off from the books. After a minute or so of looking, she found the desired book with a happy sigh. Clutching the faded cover close to her chest, she trotted over to the desk and set it down lightly. The vague smile that Bard was giving her made her uncomfortable, and she quickly handed him the twenty. He rummaged through the cash register for a moment before handing her nineteen dollars back. She opened her mouth to complain.

"Times 'r tough, doll. I think ya know tha' better than most." She shut her mouth without complaint and snatched the money and her book away and stalked out, her hands clenched into tiny balls. She had even listened to his story! She paused for a moment. Why had she done that? Why had she listened to some story about a dumb sock? She didn't even care about that. She looked at the book that was nestled against her chest, an overwhelming urge to devour it from cover to cover overcame her. Spotting a bench a few steps away, she settled herself on it, ignoring the irate squeals and creaked out of it. It took her all of a few seconds to immerse herself in Nietzsche's writings.

"I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star" she murmured under her breath, fully enthralled by the book. Philosophy was what she lived for, this kind of thinking made her feel alive again. She felt the bench groan under her as another sat beside her. She hardly spared this newcomer a glance, refusing to let any outside force pull her out of her escape.

"'_There they laugh: they do not understand me; I am not the mouth for these ears.'_ _Thus Spoke Zarathustra, _Freidrich Nietzsche, am I right?" At this, Letta jerked her head up, spinning to face the stranger seated beside her. Swallowing, startled, she nodded faintly. She couldn't see his face. It might have been a her, but the voice had a distinctly masculine timbre to it. She paused. _She couldn't see his face._ The mouth and nose were hidden by a grey chequered scarf, the forehead and hair obscured by a navy hood, the drawstrings pulled relatively tight. _It couldn't be..._ The stranger chuckled at her expression, a sinister and quite frightening sound.

"God is dead." He (She was sure it was a man now.) murmured, a laugh still present in his voice. She blinked, paused, then nodded.

"The meaning of existence isn't meek submission, but in life force... passion, chaos and freedom." She said slowly, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth. Another laugh from the man.

"Chaos is fair. Freedom." Came the reply between chuckles. Letta blinked once. Then nodded slowly.

"I suppose that could be true. But, we can't really talk about that kind of thinking until we figure out what it means to be – "She froze abruptly. She never talked this much with strangers, he was going to –

"Heidegger?" Another guffaw of laughter. "And here I thought you were already strange enough! I suppose that won't kill you, though. " Another stream of chuckles.

"I...I should be going..." Letter stammered out hesitantly, and rose stiffly. The man laughed harder.

"You are qui-_te _interesting." He called after her as she scurried off. Letta didn't look back once.

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**P.P.P.S. ** Four fairly explicit references! Can you find them? C: I do hope you enjoyed this one, this are starting to get interesting for Letta! Who is this mysterious man who understands the philosophy of nihilism? Maybe we'll find out next chapter... maybe not!


	4. Eppur è d'uopo, sforzati!

**Eppur è d'uopo, sforzati!**

**Author's Note:** About all the philosophy stuff, it's necessary for where this story is going to go. It lightens up, but it establishes a baseline for several of our characters. Plus, it's very important for Letta, as you will soon see. This chapter is going to be a lot about Gotham City, the mob and the news. We'll start to move away from pre-TDK and get into the time in which TDK is going on. So, yes, this is in essence, the chapter you have been waiting for. C: And of course, there will be anagrams, riddles and jokes hidden in this chapter, like all others.

**P.S.** I do not own any of the books, philosophers, DC Comic material, Batman stuff, actor portrayals of characters, or anything else that's not mine.

**P.P.S. **The early reviewer gets the mention… *hint hint* So, a big thanks to Katurz for taking time to review chapter three! C:

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The garbled voice of the announcer whined out from the small television screen, the chaos and disorder shown on the screen unknown to Letta, who curled in her blankets, sound asleep. She may have to work again tonight to get more money for winter clothes (she had bought enough to last them the next two weeks), but at the moment, enveloped in a peaceful slumber, she didn't worry about a thing. The door suddenly flung open, nearly ripped from the hinges, as Rita stumbled through the door, her tan face drawn, her choppy black locks of hair matted against her face. Hung over. Kicking off her heels and peeling off her sweat soaked clothes, she flopped on the other side of the bed. She opened her mouth to wake the smaller girl, paused, and thought better of it. _Poor girl never gets enough sleep as it is._ _Me bitchin' at her would be the last thing she needs._ Rita shifted her attention to the grainy television screen, patiently deciphering the jumbled buzz of words that hissed out from the set.

"_Gotham...news that...man calls himself the...Bank robbed...no leads at..."_ Rita stiffened and rushed over, frantically adjusting the antenna in a desperate attempt to receive more information.

"_Police have said that...more news on the issue soon..."_ Rita swore loudly.

"Rita..?" She swore again.

"I'm sorry, tesorina*." She murmured softly to the dazed girl who sat up, looking blearily at her. "Just go back to sleep. I have business to take care of." This seemed to satisfy the girl, for nodding faintly, she slumped back down against the stained pillows, asleep. Rita waited until the quiet breathing evened out, before brusquely yanking on a pair of pants, boots and a heavy coat. _Goddamn bank's been robbed. The mob bank, too..._ Having one's life savings in jeopardy was enough motivation to get anyone to move. Knowing that being on the streets in her hung over state would be a very poor choice, Rita decided to catch the bus.

* * *

Letta awoke with a start, quickly shaking lingering trances of her dream from her eyes, a frown tugging at her features. She had dreamed of... _No, enough of that. Can't be thinking like that._ "_Man cannot learn to forget, but hangs on the past: however far or fast he runs, that chain runs with him." _Her frown deepened. She should probably get dressed and prepared. Work called. Or rather, her lack of proper attire for the coming winter and need for money to buy said clothing called. Hopefully a rough night would help her forget her dreams, too. The chain needed to be destroyed. Gathering her strength, she climbed out of bed and meandered into the bathroom. She let out a heavy sigh as she began to run the bath.

* * *

Rita couldn't believe her ears.

"You're telling me that some _circus clowns_ just waltzed in here and left in a _school bus _with my life savings?" A woman so hardened by Gotham's streets shouldn't be in this state. Tears burned at the corner of her eyes, threatening to spill over as she spat at the mousey looking girl. The woman nodded meekly. Rita knew she was intimidating, as she towered over most other women. She never cared to measure herself, but she knew she was nearly to six foot, if not over. She slammed her hands onto the desk, vaguely noting the splinters of wood coming up under her nails.

"I _will_ be reimbursed, correct?" Her features were contorted into an ugly grimace, her voice; a low snarl. The other woman shrunk away, her spine digging into the back of the chair. She nodded meekly.

"I – We – Will try our best, ma'am." Rita nodded and stepped back slowly, her mind running in frantic circles. Drowning in her thoughts, she completely failed to notice when a burly arm wound its way around her waist, large meat hook fingers clenching her hip.

"Rita, la bagascia mia**... everything will be alright." A nasal, grating voice whispered into her ear. _Good ol' Cap, always there when he wants a good bang. Especially when Sal's gonna be pissed._ Cap Ghiaccio, one of Salvatore Maroni's right hand men. A brute, wolfish man, built like a tank and with all the charming traits of a street thug. The man wasn't an idiot, far from it, rather cruel, controlling and brutal. He also had a special spot for Rita. In bed, that was. She didn't mind, though. He paid better than most, probably because he had more money to spend than most. He helped her survive.

"Stare zitto, vecchio schifoso***." She murmured softly as he dragged her away, his granite slab palms clenched around her wrist. _Sorry Letta. See you sometime soon. But not tonight. Not tonight..._ And she was in the back seat of a vehicle, his mouth on her neck, her clothes vanishing.

* * *

The mirror was still steamed over from her shower, but it would do for her makeup – she never really cared to put on too much. At the moment, only a thin camisole and thin, black underwear covered her tiny, pale body. A glance in the mirror, and her upper lip curled at her reflection. She wasn't a woman like Rita, someone like her did well in the business. She glared angrily at the bony body that faced her from the mirror. She was solid joints, with the curvaceous appeal of a wooden plank. It was no wonder that she had to live with Rita, she rarely made much money. She hardly ever got a decent supply of customers when there were other prostitutes out on the streets. They had the bodies for the job. But, sex was sex, all you really had to do was find a horny enough guy, and they'd settle for anything. After rummaging through Rita's drawers, she found a tube of lipstick and clear gloss, and setting them on the counter, weighed heavy black liner or false eyelashes as emphasis for the bland grey eyes that stared back at her. _Definitely the eyelashes for tonight. They help hide the bags. _Deep, purpled bags emerged from under her eyes, a clear indicator of sleep deprivation, but she couldn't allow for it. Not tonight.

Her lips painted a brilliant hue of red, and glossed to make the pout more evident, she nodded as she double-checked her appearance. It would do. She pulled a jacket over her head, pulling her hair free from it, catching her reflection in the mirror again as she did so. She scowled. Her hair would have to be re-bleached in the future, and sometime soon at that, the dark roots were all too visible beneath the mass of white. There would be time for that later if she had enough money. She pulled on a pair of tight jeans, the best she had, with only a few holes in them, and a pair of small heels. Unlike Rita, she didn't have superb grace when she walked in stilettos, but she could look manageably seductive in smaller ones. Practice made perfect, she guessed, and Rita had been in the business much longer.

Seeing as aforementioned friend was still missing, Letta assumed that she would be gone for the night, undoubtedly making money of her own. Giving one final nod to her reflection, she walked out the door, making sure she heard the lock click, before descending the stairs and walking to her usual place to wait for customers. She didn't have a bar to go to, normally. Some nights she could sneak in and find a guy or two, but usually the strippers had the bars covered. And she wasn't near pretty or classy enough to be an escort. The small entry to an alleyway was often the place she waited. Her attire (or in the summer, lack thereof,) often sent the proper signals to attract the proper attention.

Tonight, however, it looked as if there wouldn't be much attention out. The streets, while still crowded, lacked the normal vibrancy and excitement that they usually maintained, especially around this time of year. She really needed to watch the news more often.

She was distracted by the reek of alcohol and the tickle of facial hair against her face.

"How much yew chargggeee, girlie?" So she would have a customer, after all. Forcing her mouth into a jaded smile, she pressed herself against him. _Another older one, with a beer belly. Again. Damn._

"However much you can afford, baby." She breathed against his lips, ignoring the God-awful moustache. His lips twisted into a drunken smile.

"Good." He dragged her from her corner to an apartment, shoving her through the door. All thoughts of the past and visions from her dreams left her as the man took her on the floor.

* * *

**P.P.P.S. **No Joker in this chapter, sorry! But there are several references to him, and as you know, we are officially in TDK timeframe! Things will get exciting after this. As you can tell, this chapter served to further introduce the characters of Rita and Letta, and their lifestyles and 'jobs'. Though it was a drag to read, this stuff comes in handy in the future! Things are about to pick up, so hold on! C;

*Tesorina is Italian for "little treasure" or "sweetheart".

**La basgascia mia is Italian for, in essence, "my whore".

***'Stare zitto, vecchio schifoso' is Italian for "Keep quiet, disgusting old man".


	5. Bah! Sei tu forse un uom?

**Bah! Sei tu forse un uom?**

**Author's Note: **Alright, this is where things start to take off. I'm trying my hardest not to make Letta into a Mary Sue. She can walk in heels, has a decent balance, flat as a wall, loves philosophy, and is a prostitute. Hopefully she's not too Mary Sue, but unfortunately, most OC's often come off as Mary Sues, though, so I'm sorry! D: Anywho, the beloved Joker will make an appearance this chapter, and not just in mention or passing, as well as the crafty Bard Feo and of course, Rita.

**P.S. ** As much as I would enjoy being able to own the Joker (If you know what I mean..), I don't, and neither do I own DC Comics, Batman and Co., Freidrich Nietzsche or Martin Heidegger, or anyone or anything else aside from the OC's in this chapter. Blah.

**P.P.S. **So…how about them reviews?

* * *

Letta rose early, stiff and sore. Soft sunlight filtered in through drawn shades, causing the curtains to glow faintly. With a grumble, she found her underwear completely ripped. She hated the drunk on her pants regardless, she quickly put herself together, glad for the drunken stupor that had graced the man the night prior. Her body remained intact and lacking the horrid aches that accompanied the sober ones. Quickly glancing about the room, she found an opened wallet tossed carelessly on the floor and pulled some hundred or so dollars from it. Without so much as a backwards glance, she scurried from the room, fearing what would happen if he awoke. Thankfully, due to his alcohol induced state, he didn't stir.

The man had been significantly closer to Rita's apartment than the one before, so she didn't have to worry about sticking out the day at a shelter while she recovered. Regardless, she hurried back to the apartment, not wanting to get caught by another man or singled out by a thief or pickpocket.

The apartment remained in the same state as she had left it; Rita had not returned. After living with the woman for so long, she was accustomed to the bizarre hours that she came and left. This was nothing new. Peeling off the jeans and jacket, and quickly putting on a pair of underwear again (She never quite could understand how many of her 'co-workers' could go without), she plopped down on the bed, her legs crossed in front of her, and turned on the television. While the reporter mumbled in the background, she counted out the money she had and what she could afford to buy. She really wanted another book. She'd read and reread the Nietzsche nearly four times already. She _really _wanted another book. Even if that meant going back to talk to creepy old Bard. After counting and double checking, Letta found she'd earned around one hundred and fifty dollars, enough money for clothes _and _books. Perfect.

The bookstore was first, she decided. It'd be odd, carrying bags of clothes around the tiny store, not to mention that she'd probably knock over and destroy every single book there with aforementioned bags. So it was decided. Fifty Cent Books was first.

Silence filled the bookstore when she arrived, the creaking of the door and the accompanying ringing of the bell grated harshly against her ears. The soft light and the scent of old books comforted her though, and she delved into the philosophy section at the back, losing awareness of all but the book in her hands.

"These books you read – these novels – you really...you really like them, don't you." Letta let out a small yelp of surprise. She could have sworn the place was empty. "In fact, you like them _so_ much, you'll just sit here, _complete-ly_ oblivious to _everything_ else, won't you." Falling back awkwardly, faced her assailant. Mouth still obscured by a scarf, hair still hidden by a hood, sat the man from the bench. She opened her mouth to protest. "You've been sitting there, for-uh, at least four hours." She paused. _Four hours? _She jumped again at what could only be described as a sinister cackle that tore from the man as he threw back his head and laughed.

"Hee hee, you should... you should see your face! Ooh! Ha ha ha ha!" Letta blinked rapidly for a moment, then allowed a faint smile to play on her lips. Strange as he was, he certainly brought a bit of light to the dim shop. The laughter died down, and he tilted his head at her, the light catching his eyes. _Brown. He has brown eyes._ She noted vaguely.

"So, _you're _reading more of _Nietzsche,_ aren't you... just what is, just _what __**is**_it that does all this" he made a general motion with his hands, waving them abstractly in the air in what she supposed was her zoning out. "to you, _all_ the time?" He finished, making a small wet sound that Letta could only describe as something like a snake. She thought for a moment.

"Well, what is it?" He demanded, growing impatient.

"Nietzsche, especially, makes more sense than anything else I've ever learned." Pausing, she tried to figure out how to put the next sentence. "Like this, _'Nothing is beautiful, only man: on this piece of naiveté rests all aesthetics, it is the first truth of aesthetics. Let us immediately add its second: nothing is ugly but degenerate man - -the domain of aesthetic judgement is therewith defined'_ If all of humanity is degenerate in some way, but we are still are all humans, then are we not the most beautiful and hideous creatures to exist? That way... when something horrible happens, it can be balanced out by the fact that in their existence, there is still something beautiful. Therefore, _'I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.'_ By seeing beauty and ugliness in everything, I can use the situation to its best outcome for me. I'm a whore. I've got to get by somehow." The man rocked back on his heels, thinking about what she had said.

"So you think, that these... _civilized _beings, people, are beautiful?" He asked, the sneer undisguised in his voice.

"And the most hideous creatures, as well. A paradox, I suppose." Came the reply, after a moment's pause. He laughed again at that, the strange laugh that sounded almost like a snarl.

"You see, you _intrigue_ me. I never can figure out what you're going to say, or do, next." Letta tilted her head to the side, studying him with curiosity.

"And the same goes to you, I suppose." He howled with laughter at that.

"See, I told ya tha' there was 'n interestin' young man 'ere, but ya didn't believe me." Limping slightly and hunched over, Bard tottered over to where the two were, a crooked grin plastered across his wrinkled face.

"I supposed you did, then." She relented with a sigh, the man next to her laughed louder at this.

"HA HA, OOH! I'm interesting, I, I _interest_ you, do I? HA HA HA HA!" Letta jumped at the raucous laughter, startled. Bard laughed along with him. _Two peas in a pod. Two nutjobs in an asylum._ She smiled faintly at the thought. She turned back to her book and continued reading as the two other men continued their spiel.

"Hey, hey, c'mere. Look at me, look _at _me." When she raised her eyes, he was _right there, right in front of her._ The fabric of the scarf scratched against her skin, the hood of his jacket brushed against her brow. She didn't dare move.

"Nietzsche was wrong about one thing, you know." He breathed, the scarf muffling his voice. "_What doesn't kill us makes us stronger_ may be true, sometimes... But I believe that what doesn't kill us, simply makes us... stranger." A husky laugh pulled from his frame at that. "_You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist,_ so why try and make it? The only way for us to live without a correct way is to live... without rules, without guidelines, you see?" He laughed again, the same rasping noise and stood abruptly, still cackling. A slight skip to his step, he sauntered from the shopping, humming some vague tune under his breath.

_Insanity in individuals is something rare – but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs it is the rule._

* * *

Still dazed from the night before, Rita slowly dragged herself to consciousness. She was still exhausted. Cap, being a top notch performer, ravaged her again, and again, and again, all night long. That wasn't to say she didn't enjoy it. Though she preferred not to have a favourite, Cap had a special place in her heart. The man paid her well, and had slightly more dignity than other men, and was single, so it wasn't as if she had to worry about a wife or girlfriend ever finding her lying prostrate, her naked body exposed, next to the hulking man. From next to her, he let out a mumbled groan and rolled over, pillar like arms enveloping her in a rare sign of affection.

"Sal's pretty pissed." He mumbled in her ear, at which she chuckled softly, a tremor running through her body at that.

"I figured as much, cacasenno*." Came the reply, a smile in her voice. The grunted response was the closest thing to laughter she was going to get.

"Go back to sleep, Rita." He mumbled, already succumbing to sleep himself. Rita smiled. She was asleep in seconds.

* * *

**P.P.P.S.** See! The philosophy stuff does have some kind of importance to this story! This one was longer than normal, and probably will be the minimum length for the chapters to come. Things are getting excitinngggg! :D I do hope you enjoyed and stick with the story!

*cacasenno is Italian for "smart-ass".


	6. Tu se' Pagliaccio

**Tu se' Pagliaccio**

* * *

**Author's Note: **This is where things really start taking off for the Joker and Rita, as you will see, some very interesting things unfold in this chapter. Brace yourselves, this chapter gets very..._strange._

**P.S. **I still don't have the money to say I own any of this. If I had my way and did own anything mentioned, this wouldn't be written on a fanfiction site, that's for sure. C;

**P.P.S. **Reviews are loved and welcomed! A shoutout to Katurz for once again reviewing this story! Thank you! C: And now, on to the plot...

* * *

_Harvey, Harvey, Harvey Dent. Get rid of Gotham's white knight, take him out of the picture, the scene... and Gotham will turn on itself._

_OOH! HA HA HA, __**what about his loved ones?**__ Corrupt the incorruptible, take him and twist that mind of his... let Gotham see its picture of perfection tarnish, stain...burn. HA HA! Send them a message, a message...Ah. The Bat Man._

* * *

"Rita...Rita, mia lucciola*, wake up..." Deep and husky, Cap's voice, if anything, only served to make her want to descend into a deeper sleep. "Rita, get up." Said seductive voice was growing impatient, and with a groan, she relented, forcing her tired eyelids open.

"Ah, Cap, I'm still tired..." She moaned at him, really not wanting to get up. He kissed her quickly, sealing off her protest.

"Come. Salvatore has an assignment for me, and I need a beautiful woman for it. Meaning, you're coming with me. And you need a nice dress, not that shit you normally wear." Rita didn't know whether to feel flattered or offended. "But first..." The brute features and thin lips curled into a slightly perverted smirk. "I think tuo grilla** needs to be washed." The massive arms enveloped her naked body and pulled her tightly to his bare chest, and he carried her to the shower for some more fun.

* * *

_The Bat Man! HA HA HA, it's a fake! A farce! __**Clowns wear a face that's painted intentionally on them so they appear to be happy or sad. What kind of mask are you wearing? **__I'm __**always**__ smiling, but this Bat Man, this one's mask isn't very good. This one's a squealer. Time to send the real Bat Man a message. He wears it as a __**symbol...**__ well, __**"There isn't any symbolism. The sea is the sea. The old man is an old man. The boy is a boy and the fish is a fish. The sharks are all sharks no better and no worse. All the symbolism that people say is shit. What goes beyond is what you see beyond when you know." **__Ahhhh, Ernest...Hemingway, Hemingway, hangingway, a hanging! HA HA HA! Let's hang this Bat Man, hang him._

* * *

The sleek black dress slid over her body like a second skin made of liquid. The colour of night, it clung to her figure down to her mid thigh before spreading out like the ocean, flowing down to the floor. She stepped out of the changing room, tugging awkwardly at the halter strap around her neck. She could hear Cap's jaw hit the floor. She knew she looked good, especially seeing as the neckline of the dress plunged to a point deep below her breasts.

"Is this acceptable?" Cap nodded mutely, floored by her appearance. She smiled.

* * *

_Harvey, Harvey, Harvey Dent. You got the mob __**ANGRY**__ and that's not good. That silly judge and the eh-hem, commissioner, need to be put... out of commission. __**HA HA HA HA HA HA!**__ As for you, Harvey, I'll pay you a visit mysel-__**f. **__Maybe the __**REAL**__ Bat Man will show up. HA! OOH! HA HA HA HA!_

* * *

Rita clung to the Cap's suit-clad arm, both frightened and awed by the rich socialites that surrounded her, the women in the dazzling dresses, the models, the dancers, the millionaires' wives. She glanced fearfully up at the man who she was latched onto. Her gaze was returned, along with a chuckle.

"Calm yourself, lucciola*." The rumble of his chest calmed her only just. "Sal says that we need to see how this goes, and report back to him." Her brow furrowed.

"How what –" The elevator door opened. A gunshot fired. Screaming. Panic. Fear.

"Good evening, ladies and gentle**man.** We are tonight's entertainment..."

"Il Jolly***..." Rita breathed out. "Why is he...Salvatore... he's hired him? Il Jolly works for... you?" Cap was silent, he eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before them. Il Jolly was pacing around a young woman, someone who had dared to speak up to him, the blade of his knife glinting in the overhead lights. It was like the room was holding its breath. With a sudden exhale, the room erupted, in the centre of it all was il pipistrello uomo****, a black blur of fury amidst all the laughter and chaos. More gunfire, and il pipistrello was gone, leaving Il Jolly. He turned. His eyes caught hers. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing in those soulless eyes. He had no heart, no soul, no feeling for anything. Just absolute... hopelessness.

And that was the most frightening thing about him. That a man could be so corrupted, so twisted, that he no longer felt anything. Her insides turned to ice. Never in her life of drugs, alcohol, addiction, and crime had anyone or anything made her feel so...afraid. So absolutely and completely terrified. A saccharine smile. And he was gone.

* * *

Letta sat, cross-legged on the bed, watching the television, a cup of tea clutched tightly in her hands. All she could make out were garbled mentions of Gotham's favourite bachelor, Bruce Wayne and his party for the new District Attorney, Harvey Dent. Nothing else made sense, so she paid it no mind.

The door slammed open. Face drawn and lined with fear, a haggard looking Rita staggered through the door.

"Give me a smoke." Letta quickly grabbed the box from the nightstand and tossed it to her, along with a pack of matches. Not a word was spoken until the woman had lit a cigarette and had taken several deep drags. Letting out a puff of smoke, she crossed the room, stripping out the dress she wore as she did so. The window was flung open, and ignoring Letta's incredulous look, she leaned over, breathing out a thick cloud of smoke.

"Il Jolly. He was there." Letta froze.

"Il Jolly? Where? Rita, I haven't heard from you in three days, I don't know what –"

"Cap took me to Bruce Wayne's little party for his work. Il Jolly was hired by the mob to kill Harvey Dent, and he showed up. God, Letta... his eyes. His eyes." Rita paused, an odd sound tearing itself from her frame. "It was like looking into an endless pit. A pit with no bottom. There was nothing in them. No light. No end. It was so...hollow. I..." That weird sound again. With a flash of shock, she realized that the street-hardened woman was crying. "He's a monster, Letta!" She shrieked, raging now. "A fiend, demone+, un mostro++!" Letta threw her arms around the sobbing woman, not quite knowing how else to comfort her. Never, in her four years of living with her, had she ever seen the woman cry, let alone get upset. That night neither woman went out, as Rita cried herself to sleep in Letta's arms. Letta, shaken to her core by this rare display of emotion, took the unfinished cigarette and smoked the night away.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time Letta rose. Rita was still sound asleep, the dried tears had left crusty tracks down her cheeks, a dull reminder of the night before. She needed to clear her head. Cigarettes never really gave her the numb feeling that she craved, that was a feeling that was only achieved through alcohol or books. A sudden thought crossed her mind. She was sure Bard wouldn't mind. She slipped out from where Rita was curled against her. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a heavy overcoat, as well as the same pair of torn sneakers, she threw her clothes on and stuffed a can of beer into the pocket of the coat. Now to get some more books and away from the noise of the city...

The fifteen minutes to Fifty Cent Books was the longest fifteen minutes of her life. She was caught at two separate traffic lights, and nearly had her beer fall from her pocket. But, she was finally there. Finally. She didn't even bother to check if anyone else was there, ignoring the fact that she'd been caught unaware last time. This time, she just didn't care. She slumped to the floor against the back wall, her legs nearly collapsing from underneath her. Without a second though, she opened the beer and took a deep draught. It tasted like shit. She didn't care. Breathing in the scent of dust and parchment, and taking another drought of alcohol, the pain and confusion in her head vanished into a pleasant buzz.

She wasn't sure how long she sat in her catatonic state, she wasn't even sure when he had arrived. All she knew was that someone had come and given her some heavy jacket to cover her. And just as quickly, had left. It was all a haze, though. She may have dreamed the whole thing up.

* * *

**P.P.P.S. **Really crappy cliffhanger! Dun-dun-dun! What's going to happen? Will Rita recover from her traumatic experience? Where will the Joker strike next? How drunk is Letta? Tune in next time to find out! (I should never be a television announcer. I absolutely suck at these things.) But, I do hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was slightly difficult to write, I got sidetracked and had to rethink my approach several times, but I think, all in all, I did alright. C: I hope you enjoyed!

*lucciola is Italian for whore.

**grilla is Italian for vagina.

***Il Jolly is Italian for The Joker.

****Il pipistrello uomo is Italian for the Bat Man.

+demone is Italian for demon.

++mostro is Italian for freak.


	7. Vesti la Giubba

**Vesti la Giubba**

**Author's Note**: Okay, for those of you who were curious about why Letta loves philosophy, this chapter will explain everything! There might be a brief appearance from the Joker, but this is mostly Letta's backstory, to give a little more depth to her character! So, this chapter doesn't necessarily need to be read, but it explains a lot. Plus, a little bit of Joker at the beginning...

**P.S.** I don't own anything that I don't own.

**P.P.S. **I love reading reviews, another thank you to Katurz for reviewing again! C:

* * *

The day came and went. Letta still remained unconscious on the floor of the bookshop.

"Now, that's jus' not good fer business." Bard muttered under his breath, letting out a snort of laughter. _Business? What business?_ The girl had walked in early yesterday morning, completely oblivious of her surroundings, and had plopped down in the back corner. The hair that normally fell to her waist was bunched up on her head; her clothes were like bed sheets on her slim figure. Her eyes were rimmed with red and the stench of cigarettes clung to her. There was something that had clearly distressed the poor girl. But it wasn't until she was sitting that he was truly shocked. She pulled out a can of beer. Opened it. Drank. And drank. And drank. Until her eyes were starting to roll back in her sockets. There was a soft grunt, and she flopped down on a heap of books, just like that! The beer can was empty, and he assumed that she had a fairly low tolerance for alcohol, or the 'beer' wasn't really beer, and was something like vodka or whiskey that she had stored in a can. Either way. He was content to let her sleep there for the day, and so he let her be.

The books were a mess, though, and since he had nothing better to do with his time, he started at the front, pulling out a stack of books, sorting them by author's name, fiction or non-fiction, then genre. This had gone on for a good hour or so when the sound of the bell and the door opening startled him.

The curious young man with the scarf was back. He seemed as if he wanted to say something, but noticed something else instead. Without a word, he walked to the back. Bard shrugged it off, the man often wandered about the store without doing anything, and Bard had deemed him to be harmless enough. So, he paid him no mind. It wasn't until he heard that sinister chuckling that a jolt of fright hit him. The little street walker was asleep back there. He jumped up, grabbing a thick book, about to threaten him. Then froze. He had taken off the hooded jacket he normally wore and had draped it over the sleeping girl's prone form. He was still laughing softly.

The lighting was poor, and due to the clouds, visibility in the store was less than optimal. He also was closer to blind than most people tended to be. Thus, he could only just make out the features and shape of the top of his head. He had darker hair, what colour, he couldn't place. But it was dark, and somewhat wavy. Long, too, as it appeared to reach his shoulders. That could have been the scarf, but it looked like hair. He realized he was staring, and the young man was staring back.

"Do I, have-uh, something on my face?" A loud chuckle at that. His voice was familiar in a way that made Bard start to feel slightly uncomfortable. But, he couldn't place it. Bard forced a small laugh and shook his head.

"Th' girl drank 'erself like this. Sh' was upset 'bout somethin', but I couldn' tell ya what." He gave a small shrug, hoping that man would buy it. He did with a vague nod and a short exhale that could have passed for a laugh. A wet sound, like a snake. Another exhale.

"You'll... keep her here?" He tipped his head to the side, gauging the Bard's reaction. His mouth felt dry. There was something horrifyingly familiar about this man. He felt his head nodded. Where had this fear been before? That short exhale.

He took a half-step forward. The light caught his eyes.

There was nothing in them.

Absolutely nothing.

A pin could have been heard in the silence that descended the shop.

Bard knew what stood before him.

And he was gone, just like that, leaving only his jacket behind.

* * *

_She sat at her desk, idly doodling little swirls, bubbles and hearts in the margins of her class notes._

_"Ms. Barzel, if you could pay attention in my class, I would very much appreciate it." She jumped, awkwardly averting her eyes from the piercing gaze of her philosophy instructor. Regardless of if she was majoring in the class, she didn't have an appetite for long and boring lectures. Even if the professor was easy on the eyes. His name was Peter Rastor, or 'Professor Rastor', as he liked to be called. His features were rugged, stubble crawled across his face, accenting strong cheekbones and green eyes. He was, indeed, handsome. But a very boring person to hear give a lecture._

_"Ms. Barzel, if you're going to continue to zone out, I'm going to have to ask you to stay after class." A wave of hot shame burned itself across her face, and she buried her nose in Virilio's work, hiding the bright flush of colour that had risen to her cheeks._

_"Yes, professor." Came her mumbled reply. The lesson continued and ended without many problems. Letta didn't move until all the class had filed out the door, leaving her alone in the lecture hall with the professor._

_"Ms. Barzel, I've noticed you've been having problems concentrating in my class. Is there something wrong? Should you switch majors?" He was next to her desk and very close to her. Startlingly close. She shook her head, her mouth thick._

_"Um...Uh, no, sir-professor. I'm fine. I'm just tired, I haven't been sleeping well recently. That's all." He leaned closer to her, a look of concern plastered to his face. She saw her reflection in his green eyes._

_"Are you sure, Letta?" The fact that he used her first name hardly registered, she was too concentrated on keeping her mind clear from the addictively delicious scent of cologne that wafted off of him._

_"Ah...yes...Professor Rastor..." She managed to breathe out, feeling both terrified and attracted. A strange smirk graced his mouth._

_"That expression. It suits you." She opened her mouth to question him. His lips smashed into hers, catching her open mouth full on. His hands grabbed her wrists and held them to the table. His tongue was already inside her mouth, ravaging it roughly. Her mind returning to her body, she tried to pull away._

_"Pull away now, I fail you." Letta froze. A sick feeling pooled in her stomach and she let the man continue. His mouth left hers and began to descend down her neck, her chest, ripping her blouse as he pinned her to the table top._

_"The doors are locked and I've closed the window shades. I've waited for you to approach me long enough, I needed to take matters into my own hands." She tensed under him as his hand roughly undid her pants and slipped into her panties. "Don't think I haven't seen you watching me. I __**know**__ you want this." Letta hardly registered his voice, her eyes were rolled back into her skull, white dots flickering in her vision. This was wrong. This was so wrong. His mouth was all over her, biting, sucking, leaving marks, his hands were moving, when suddenly..._

Screams echoed through the empty shop. Letta sat up, cold sweat soaked through her pants and shirt. A horrid numbness had swept through her body. The room spun and danced in front of her eyes, making it unrecognizable. _Where is this place? Why...what...?_ There was nothing in her mind. No memory of how she came to where ever this was, no memory of why she felt this way, nothing but a blissful numbness and a can of...

A can of...

Beer..?

No, this was...this had been Rita's...

_Rita, who's Rita?_

Rita's home-made stuff. Just for her.

_And I drank it._ _In the bookstore. __**In the bookstore.**_

Letta swore quietly, her memory slowly seeping back into her mind, foggy and uncertain, but recognition and sensibility was returning as well.

"'ere, drink this." A hand was in front of her, holding a glass of something. Something brown. She reached out to grab it.

Or at least, she thought she did.

Her arm didn't budge from where it was folded at her side. A sigh.

''Ere, open yer mouth." Letta did, feeling her swollen tongue loll about in her mouth. A glass was pushed to her lips and a cool liquid spilled in. She drank it up greedily, identifying it to be some sort of weak tea.

Oh, God, tea. How long had it been since she had had tea?

"'Bout time ya woke up. What was in tha' stuff ya had?" That voice... it was familiar. So...familiar. It sounded like..like...

"Ba...Bard." She choked out.

"Ya can speak! 's a miracle!" His face shifted into focus, the milky eyes blank, the leering smile falling. "I was all worried fer ya, ya slept fer two days straigh' n' woke up screamin' like a banshee." He frowned at that. Then, a grudging smile. "I'm jus' glad yer alright. Yer my only customer, ya know?" Letta gave him a shaky smile, her senses returning. Her head throbbed painfully.

"I...I need...to get home." She croaked feebly. Bard frowned.

"I wasn't aware ya had one, dearie. But, never fear, old Bard's 'ere! I'll get ya home, just give me directions on th' way."

* * *

The walk back was about twice as long, given that Letta could hardly stand and Bard took a wrong turn...twice. But, nonetheless, they reached Rita's apartment without too many problems. Letta stumbled through the door and turned to go.

"Wait. 'Ere." Bard tossed a heavy hooded jacket at her. "Tha' young man. 'E was there while ya slept. 'E put this on ya. Keep it. I don't want it." He left before she could protest. The jacket was slashed in a few various spots and reeked to heaven of gasoline and something like gunpowder, but it carried a slight trace of something more, something Letta couldn't quite place. She shrugged, not really in the mood to worry too much about something so little. Instead, she curled up with the jacket, right there on the floor, and was asleep in seconds.

(This next part is borderline M rating, but still clean enough to be T. The implications are very strong, though, so read on if you dare...)

* * *

_"Ms. Barzel, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to stay after class again." The words that Letta had been dreading to hear for the past two months. The first time, he had only fingered her, the second time, he had forced her to go down on him, as well as the two succeeding times. She was worried when he was going to push it further. But she could not fail this class. She was majoring in philosophy, how would it look if she failed her philosophy class? So, she nodded meekly and began mentally bracing herself._

_Class ended and all the students filed out the doors again._

_She heard Professor Rastor lock the doors with a soft click. The shades were closed. Heavy footsteps approached her._

_"Open your eyes, Letta." She complied. "We've been through this before. You scratch my back... I'll scratch yours." She bobbed her head vaguely. He smiled and patted her head. "Good girl." What she wouldn't give to punch the bastard in the mouth. His hands were on her, all but tearing her clothes off of her._

_"I've had a very rough week, Letta. Be a good girl and help kiss everything better?" Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers. Forceful. Hungry. He sighed heavily and pulled her from the desk she lay on. She knew what she had to do and silently dropped to her knees as he dropped his pants to the floor. His hand grabbed the back of her head, holding her so tight, she almost couldn't breathe. Then he released her and sat there, his breathing heavy._

_"It's not enough. Letta, you're supposed to make me feel better. I guess you did. But this was only good enough for a D, maybe a C if you're lucky." He looked at her apologetically. "You'll just have to do better next time, my dear." Panic seized her instantly as he slowly began to rise._

_"Professor, um..wait..." The bastard was giving her no choice. She wouldn't be able to say it was rape, now, either. Swallowing her feelings she rose from her knees, shedding her remaining clothes. Slowly, trying to look sexy and letting her hips sway only just, she walked over to him and pulled off his shirt and let herself straddle him. He quirked an eyebrow at her._

_"You think you can do better?" She looked away and nodded only slightly. He smirked and seized her hips and pulled her down. Agony burned through her, but she didn't let it show._

_"Scream for me, Letta." As he slammed her against the floor, over and over again, she screamed for him. Screamed until her throat was raw._

* * *

**P.P.P.S. **So, there you have it. Why Letta loves philosophy, and probably what the catalyst was that drove her to the streets! ALSO! The Joker showed something like affection? Or was it pity? DUN DUN DUN! Everything will make sense next chapter.


	8. E la faccia infarina

**E la faccia infarina**

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, we're taking a break from Letta at this point. I know you're all tired of her. She doesn't talk much does she? This chapter is mostly going to focus on the Joker, his thoughts and what's going on with him as he prepares his social experiment and plans to set the clock in motion. Also, Rita and what's going on with the mob, and what the mob has to do with Letta and the Joker. FUN!

**P.S.** I've said this enough times, but better safe than sorry, hm? Don't own anything that I don't own, which include Batman and the like.

**P.P.S. **I believe that what you read should simply make you give...reviews. Y'see, fanfiction, as you know, is a lot like the internet. All it takes is a little review. *cough* *cough* So, once again, a big thank you to Katurz, who faithfully reviews almost every chapter I put up. C; I think you're going to like this one. C:

* * *

Darkness had enveloped the tiny apartment when she heard the door open. Rita froze. There was a deep voice, mumbling something. She caught a waft of gasoline, then a thump. The door shut. Cautiously, Rita flicked on the light-switch, half expecting to see a thug or something at the foot of her bed. The room was empty. Hesitantly, she swung her legs out from under the covers and stood uneasily and glanced around the room again. And let out a sigh of relief. The 'intruder' was only Letta, who now lay curled in a heap on the floor, tightly clutching a navy sweatshirt. Said sweatshirt smelled to high heaven of gasoline. She didn't even want to know what the girl had been doing.

With a soft sigh, she scooped the tiny body into her arms and carried the girl to the bed, setting her down gently on the spring mattress. She scratched idly at the thin layer of grime that coated her arms. _Might as well take a shower, too late to go back to sleep, now._ Grabbing a towel from the floor, she stalked into the dingy bathroom, shedding her clothes as she did so.

The was halfway through washing her hair when she heard it. At first she thought it might have been the squeaking of a door, but when it grew in volume, she knew it was something else.

Screaming.

Horrible, blood-curling screams.

With a jolt, Rita realized that it was Letta who was screaming. Slamming the shower off and grabbing the towel, she stumbled out from the bathroom, shampoo suds still in her hair. The poor girl was writhing on the bed, screaming her throat raw. Her eyes open and unseeing, lashing out at some unknown tormentor. Rita grabbed the girl and pulled her tightly to her, disturbed.

"Shh, shh...I've got you... you're safe here..." The girl fought frantically, but Rita held on, refusing to budge, until her struggling slowed. She slumped against her chest, her breath coming in little gasps. Rita took the jacket and wrapped it securely around the girl. This seemed to comfort her.

"Shhhh, tesorina, you're alright now." A thought crossed her mind. Softly, she began singing a strange lullaby she had heard when she was younger.

_Nessun dorma, nessun dorma, tu pure, o principessa..._

None shall sleep, none shall sleep, even you, o princess...

Her soft singing seemed to lull the girl back into a fitful sleep. Restless or not, it was still better than those awful screams. Rita was torn. A part of her wanted to ask what had frightened the girl so, but at the same time, that would violate the unspoken rule the two had. _Never ask about the past or about what they feared._ Never. In the end, she decided to honour that rule and returned to her shower.

She had to see Cap again today. He had asked for her again in a few days time, and three days was enough time to be considered a few days. She knew where to find him, it was just a matter of getting there. She let the water wash the rest of the suds from her body and shut it off, getting out and dressing quickly.

She pressed her lips to Letta's sweat dampened forehead.

"I've got to go, tesorina. I'll be back later." The murmured promise slipped from between her lips unbidden. She was getting awfully attached to the little girl. Time to go. She grabbed a trench coat and strode through the door.

* * *

_HA HA HA HA, OOH, Harvey Dent. Harvey, you're my ace in the hole, you better not disappoint. Let's set up a test, an experiment for the people of Gotham... a social experiment. HA! Let's see what the Batman does now... now that he's failed to save Harvey Dent. Oh yes, that's all your fault, Bat Man. You went blindly after her, if you had only gone after him instead... you would have saved her. HA HA HA HA HA HA!_

* * *

Cap was sitting near the bar, a half empty bottle of beer beside him. Rita swung herself into the seat next to him.

"You wanted me?" She asked softly. Cap turned to face her. She gasped. There were dark bags beneath his eyes and stubble covered his normally clean shaven face.

"Il Jolly. He's nuts, Rita. Absolutely insane." He spat angrily. "I was there when they interrogated him. Do you know what he said? He said that he wasn't insane, he denied that. He said he was '_ahead of the curve'_. Can you believe that? The freak thinks that he's an intelligent thinker." Rita shook her head, stunned by the brash behaviour of the scarred man.

"He really..?" Cap nodded, his thin lips no more than a small line.

"Sick bastard, that's what he is. Killing people is ahead of the curve?" A snort. "Then we've been ahead of the curve for ages." Rita smiled stiffly. Something was really bothering the man. He looked at her, the distress evident in the lines of his face.

"The bastards out of control, Rita. Gotham City isn't even remotely safe anymore. Not even for someone in the mob like you." Rita stiffened.

"That includes you, too, Cap." She shot back at him. Then froze. She was talking back to him. He was going to break her for – Cap chuckled softly.

"Ah, Rita. My little firecracker. Come home with me." Rita smiled faintly. There was a little more to Cap than met the eye. She gave him a vague nod.

"Of course, cacasenno."

* * *

_Time to get ready for the big show. HA HA, that silly girl in the bookstore, she would appreciate this, enjoy this._ He paused._ Don't think, just do...things..._

* * *

**P.P.P.S.** Sorry for the ridiculously short chapter, this one's mostly a bridge into the action that starts happening next chapter, as you can tell, we're wrapping up the TDK era and starting to move into post-TDK times, after next chapter, the events of TDK will have transpired. But don't let that get you down, the next four chapters will be very exciting!


	9. La gente paga, e rider vuole qua

**La gente paga, e rider vuole qua**

* * *

**Author's Note:** By the end of this chapter we will have left TDK era, but never fear, this story is going to get really intense in the next few chapters... so hang in there with me! Letta notices the Joker for the first time this chapter. Will she find out about the mysterious stranger in the hood? Read and find out!

**P.S.** SURPRISE! I bought DC COMICS! Just kidding, I didn't. I'm poor and don't have that kind of money. I really wish I did, though. So, obviously, I don't own anything in here that's not mine.

**P.P.S.** I'm not a monster. I just like reviews. You, you couldn't review it, could you? Katurz did, though. Thank you, dear! C:

* * *

Everything hurt. There were aches from her head to her toes, and above all else, her throat throbbed violently. From what, she didn't know. It was raw, parched, and her tongue felt heavy. Had she been screaming? She didn't rememb – All in a flash, the nightmare flooded back to her, forcing a strangled cry from her lips. She had worked so hard to forget, so hard to erase that bit of her past. Why was she remembering it now? Now, of all times? She forced the thoughts from her head and flicked on the TV.

"_I'm...for Gotham...what does it take...people want to join in...failed to kill...gotta get you off...into the game...nightfall...city is mine. Anyone left...plays by my rules...get out now...crowd are sure in for a surprise..." _Suddenly a very distorted sound. Something like... laughter. Dark, sinister laughter. Through the grain in the screen, she saw the camera turn and face the camera man. Gasped. _Il Jolly..._ A pulse of fear shot through her as she focused on the eyes.

It was like Rita had said. There was nothing in them. The eyes were vacant of all emotion.

Not even humour touched those darkened eyes.

The man felt nothing, nothing at all for the world. Absolutely nothing.

Nietzsche's prodigy.

"Not by wrath does one kill, but by laughter." She breathed out. This man was the living embodiment of Nietzsche's ideals. How absolutely terrifying. But it explained everything so well. _Morality is the herd-instinct of the individual_, Nietzsche had said, and the Joker didn't have morals, thus existing outside of the 'herd', so to speak. _Crime belongs to the concept "revolt against the social order." One does not "punish" a rebel; one suppresses him. A rebel can be a miserable and contemptible man; but there is nothing contemptible in a revolt as such – and to be a rebel in view of contemporary society does not in itself lower the value of a man. There are even cases in which one might have to honour a rebel, because he finds something in our society against which war ought to be waged – he awakens us from out slumber._

_That was it. That was why he wanted to get Gotham...into the game and off the bench. _The pieces were clicking in Letta's brain at a break neck speed. It all made sense now. Certainly the randomness in which he executed his acts didn't... but his logic... it made sense. He was Nietzsche's dream. Humanity perfected. Did that make him beautiful, then? Her mind reeling, Letta blinked.

That laugh, though. Something about that laugh... Something about the Joker was frighteningly and disturbingly familiar. She shrugged the thought off and nestled deeper into the hooded jacket she had been given. Then it hit her.

Gasoline.

Gunpowder.

Faint scent of something copper, a scent she could one describe to be...blood.

Slashed patches of the jacket. From knives.

Her legs were riveted to the floor, her arms trembled slightly. She couldn't move.

It all made sense now.

The man, the scarf, the perpetual disguise.

The constant quips from Nietzsche, something someone only well versed in his morals could do.

It clicked.

She took a deep breath.

And sat down.

* * *

"Rita...lucciola mia...I have to go. Sal needs someone to drive him around. But...before I go, there's something I have to ask you..." Rita moaned feebly.

"Cap, cacasenno...Let me sleep, just a bit longer...you didn't play nice last night." Cap chuckled at her sulking.

"Rita, open your eyes." She groaned again and looked over at him, her grouchiness apparent.

"We've been doing this for year and years, Rita. I take you home, you leave the next morning... and I don't like it. I hate it when you sleep around. I don't want you to have to sleep with anyone...but me. I already talked to Sal, he said it'd be alright to have you part of us, officially, now. You'll be in on everything. You're smart. We need someone with your intelligence. And...I need someone like you. So..." He pulled out a small gold band and pushed it into her hand, folding her fingers around it. "Think about it." He stood and turned to go.

"Wa...wait...Cap...Wait..." Her mouth felt unusually dry as she watched his back stiffen. She rose and walked over, turning him around and pulling his lips down to meet hers.

"Of course I will, cacasenno." Cap smiled softly and kissed her nose.

"Good." He threw on pants and a suit jacket, and with a final smirk her in direction, was gone. Rita collapsed on the bed with a dazed smile. Cap had proposed to her, in his very Cap-like way. She couldn't believe it. She unclenched her fist and slipped the little band onto her finger, smiling vaguely all the while. Who would have thought that the little street urchin would marry someone like Cap Ghiaccio. She flopped back on the bed, unable to tear the smile from her face.

* * *

"Don't stop for lights, cops, nothin'." Salvatore Maroni's nasally voice instructed him to drive, so drive he would. Cap had been in the business too long and knew better than to listen to the conversations that were going on in the back seat. He focused the entirety of his attention on the road, ignoring everything in the back seat until...

"Your driver." There was a bang. Cap Ghiaccio knew no more.

* * *

_HA HA HA HA HA HA! This wonderful social experiment...HA HA, this is the most __**fun**__ I've had in ages. I wonder what the __**Bat Man**__ is going to do, hm? I wonder if he'll..he'll come find me, hunt me down. OOH! HA HA HA HA! What fun, what fun. What will the Bat Man do? Don't let me down, don't disappoint me, Bats._

_HA HA HA, I wonder what that little street walker's thinking right-_ He froze, frowning slightly. He had no attachments. No one had ever had anything to threaten him with. So what did it mean that this...creature, this girl had gotten into his mind. Hm. He'd have to kill her.

_I have the Bat Man to understand me, I don't need another human being in my life...HA HA HA, but, "__**The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything."**__ She's nothing more, not cute, not intriguing, definitely not intriguing. Not. One. Bit. No. NO! No, no no. _He laughed raucously, then. The Joker. Thinking about a woman. He cackled madly. _Don't think. Just do. Time for-uh, Gotham to get a little wake-up call._

* * *

The bookstore again, she didn't know how she had ended up here. It must have been the confusion induced delirium that led her there. But, there she was, surrounded by books and dust.

"Yer back 'ere so soon?" Bard's voice somehow came as a surprise, but she gave him a vague nod as a response.

"I want to say...I'm sorry... for passing out in your shop. And getting drunk." Averting her eyes, she scuffed her torn sneakers against the floor. Bard snorted.

"I was mighty upset a first. Ya gotta pay me a buck 'er two fer it, but ya didn't do anythin' no harm." He smiled vaguely. "'Sides, I learned a thing 'r two 'bout everythin'." Letta didn't want to know what he meant by that. Instead, she rummaged through her pockets and found the money she was going to use for lunch and dinner, about ten dollars in all, and gave it to him.

"I have another story for ya. Ya really should... listen to this. Ya need to know what yer gonna get yerself into." Letta froze. He knew.

* * *

**P.P.P.S. **CLIFF HANGER! Muahahaha. As you can tell, things are picking up now, even though TDK era has been brought to a close... from here on out, the chapters are going to get longer. Why am I making everything so disjointed? It will all make sense at the end... so stick with it and find out!


	10. E se Arlecchin t'involva Colombina

**E se Arlecchin t'involva Colombina**

* * *

**Author's Note: **This will be the most exciting chapter to date! So, hang in there... this is gonna be good. There will be guest appearances from some of the other rogues, but that'd be too easy, obviously it's going to be in terms of vague allusions and anagrams! SO! Have fun!

**P.S.** I still haven't got the money to buy the copyright to DC comics, so nothing is mine. Sadly. :/

**P.P.S.** Please review! Reviews are healthy for the soul and promote more updates! Thank you again to Katurz for sticking with this story!

* * *

"Y'see, I wasn't always this lonely beggar... I had m'self a wife. 'Er name was Columbine. She was m'everythin'. She 'elped me out with this here store. She had a lil' cafe thing runnin' in the back – ya can still see the countertop n' the pots back there. And boy did she make th' best coffee a guy's ever had." A faint smile appeared above the wispy beard. "'N she was beautiful. Beautiful like ya have no idea."

_"Sing for me, Bard!" A chuckle escaped the lean frame as he looked fondly at the lovely woman in his arms._

_"Darlin', y'know I can't sing fer the life of me." The honking laughter he loved so much rang out immediately. Columbine's laugh was often compared to an angry mallard duck in mating season, but somehow, Bard enjoyed the unique, if slightly irritating sound. _

_"Oh, Bard, love, please? You know how much I enjoy it!" Bard felt himself sigh. Those green eyes of hers still had him bending over backwards for her. He gave a noncommittal grumble before indulging her. The sound of his voice had always revolted him, making his name all the more ironic. It was like gravel dragging across a chalkboard. The nails on chalkboard sound times one hundred. Columbine always insisted that it sounded like Louis Armstrong. Right. But, he always got the smallest sense of satisfaction at the happy sigh and her sudden weight against his side as she swooned against him. It was moments like these that he lived for. He tugged her close, feeling her petite, womanly form pressed against his thin chest. He wasn't much of a looker, he knew that. Abnormally tall, gangly, all angles and joints from head to toe, it was a miracle that someone like Columbine Silvia ever looked at him twice. She was stunning. Small, with a sweet heart-shaped face and dark curls that fell down beyond her shoulders, topped off with a curving body, Columbine was beautiful. He loved every bit of her. Even the little pudge of fat around her midsection and the obnoxious laugh that quacked out of her with nearly every comment that he made. _

_He loved her. _

_His wife. _

_His everything._

_For years they had inked out a living on the corner of Gotham's business district, their little bookstore a solace from the squealing cars and hustle and bustle of life. While Bard tripped over his words trying to convince someone to buy a book or two, Columbine would be in the back, making a racket with her laughter but selling the world's best coffee and tea. That alone often made more money that anything else that they did._

_He was pushing forty, she was only in her mid-thirties, but if anything, she had grown more beautiful in the sixteen years they had been married. The corners of her eyes and the lines from the corners of her mouths were slightly beginning to form, she had put on some weight, but she was still his beautiful Columbine._

_And his alone._

_"Bard, you'll never believe what happened today!" Earlier, in the morning, Columbine had left to buy groceries at the store, getting the bare minimum, as they still only managed to scrape by. He quirked an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable story that was about to burst out from her lips._

_"I was in line, y'see, talking to Lily Selma – you remember Lily, right? The cute little college girl, getting her degree in... something sciency. Anywho, I was in line, with the groceries, talking with Lily, and the guy at the register is taking __**forever.**__ And I mean __**forever!**__ I thought I was going to be halfway in my grave before I got out of there! Anyways, there I am and all of a sudden, there's this crash, and the woman next to him starts screaming bloody murder, like there's some sort of nightmarish thing going on! And I look, and all the guy dropped was a bottle of water, and the cap popped off. It was almost empty anyways, and only a little spilled, but the lady just doesn't stop screaming! Like, I'm not even kidding! This is like, __**bloody murder!**__" Bard sighed, rolling his eyes melodramatically. Columbine had a knack for making a walk to the bus station sound like an epic tale worthy of Odysseus. _

_"ANYWAYS, the guy is apologizing. He's this really nerdy lookin' guy, funny wire glasses and all, and he's just apologizing away, I think his name was Nathan or something. He might have been in here once or twice, I can't remember. But yeah, that's what happened. I swear." She blinked up at him expectantly. He chuckled softly and kissed her forehead._

_"You, m'dear, never fail to make my day."_

* * *

"Y'see, Columbine, she... she meant the world to me. We were poor, but we managed. We were 'appy. I was 'appy. As long as I was with 'er, I would be 'appy." The milky blue eyes were glazed over and lost in thought. Letta swallowed and licked her lips to wet them.

"What happened to her?" His eyes found her and a shuddering sigh hissed through his lips.

"It happened two years ago..."

_"Bard, I'm going to the store, you forgot to buy me some soy milk..." Bard sighed and pulled the frail woman close._

_"'M sorry, m'dear. D'ya want me to come with?" Columbine shook her head, smiling a gap-toothed smile up at him. They had both aged. Him, awkwardly, her, beautifully. Her voice was a gentle hush, the obnoxious quacking laughter a funny screeching sound, somewhere between the rasp of a dying snake and a vulture. It still got a kick out of old Bard. Her once long hair had been cut short and was silky grey tufts of hair that smelt of old lady perfume and dirt._

_But he still loved every bit of her._

_Every last bit._

_"I'll be back soon, Bard. Behave yourself, please." Bard sniggered, fully intending to steal her toilet seat warmer, just to mess with her, but he planted a tender kiss on her forehead and shooed her out the door._

_Four hours had passed and she still wasn't back._

_She was normally back after half of an hour._

_Bard paced anxiously._

_Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth._

_Night fell and she still hadn't returned._

_The shop was deathly silent._

_Two more hours passed._

_Then, a knock on the door._

_"Jesus Christ, Columbine, I though' ya were..." It wasn't Columbine at the door. A grim faced police officer stared back at him. Bard felt his knees go weak._

_"Where's...where's Columbine?"_

_"Earlier this morning...there was a bus...hijacked..." The man's voice was hushed, his mouth a thin line of determination and refusal to emote. "A psychopath, terrorist, had taken over the bus. He..." The man couldn't speak anymore. He took a shuddering breath. In, out. In, out. "Your wife has passed away." Bard felt his legs give way beneath him. The policeman caught him and gently set him down. _

_Between shuddering sobs, he managed to ask "Who?" The policeman didn't answer for a moment._

_"A crazy man. A psychotic man with a knack for chaos. He calls himself the Joker. He's already killed thirty others." Bard couldn't hear anything else._

_His sweet Columbine._

_His beloved wife._

_Stolen._

_Gone._

* * *

Bard let out a heavy sigh.

"Tha' **monster** took everythin' from me. He-" Letta flung her arms around the frail old man, abandoning any sense of hesitation.

"I'm sorry," Her voice cracked. "I'm so sorry." Stunned into silence, Bard didn't move for a moment, before awkwardly returning her embrace.

* * *

Letta returned to see the apartment door slightly ajar. She froze, frightened to go in. The faint, muffled sound of sobs reached her ears. It was all she needed. She burst in, and nearly fell back out the door in shock. Rita lay, sprawled out on the bed, the empty bottles of booze a symbolic pyre of depression. A loud hiccup tore from her throat, drawing Letta's attention to her face, and more importantly, to the tear tracks once again dried on her face. The television was on, the static crackling faintly in the background.

"Rita..." The name slipped from her lips, unbidden. She ducked narrowly avoiding the bottle of beer that went flying her direction. The resounding crash rang in her ears as she met Rita's burning gaze. Then, her eyes softened.

"Oh...s'only yew...Letta...I thoughhh...I though' i'was some'un...'un else." The alcohol was talking, rather than the hardened woman Letta knew and loved.

"Rita...what happened?" She whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer. This sent a fresh torrent of tears rolling down the woman's cheeks, drawing tracks of mascara and eyeshadow as it did so.

"I..Cap...'e proposed tah me... n' I was gonna get married, Letta! But... 'e got killed...ina car accident..." She broke down in a heap, sobbing hopelessly. Letta couldn't even begin to think of how to comfort her friend. So she pried the bottle from her hand, set it down and hugged the drunken woman to her chest, waiting until she fell asleep. It was the second person she had comforted in just a few short hours.

Gotham City was a cruel place.

Happiness didn't exist.

The city thrived off of the pain and suffering that the rampant crime caused. Each crime perpetrating the cycle of pain. It was endless.

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." The quote came out in a soft breath. Crime begot crime. Evil begot evil. There was no end to it, not in-

_"The Joker...thanks to Gotham's finest...Arkham Asylum...remain indefinitely...People..are safe at last..."_ The crackle of the television was just enough to joke Letta into total awareness.

It wasn't possible.

There was no way.

The Joker...

Had been caught?

Letta suddenly realized how very torn she was at this. A part of her wanted to rejoice, the menace was now off of the city streets.

But at the same time...

She couldn't find it in herself to hate the Joker.

Not even after Bard's story.

She couldn't hate him.

And that frightened her the most.

* * *

**P.P.P.S. **DUN DUN DUN! We had the guest appearance of two other villains from the Batman universe, one I made blatantly obvious, the other is a slight bit more discreet. What's in store for Letta? And the Joker? What's going to happen to Rita, since she was accepted into the mob, now that her fiancée is dead? Next chapter is where all the action begins, and in two chapters, that's the one you won't want to miss! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! C:


	11. Ridi, Pagliaccio, e ognun applaudira

**Ridi, Pagliaccio, e ognun applaudira**

* * *

**Author's note:** More exciting stuff on the Mob. Yaaayyy. However, we also cut to the Joker for an extensive while, and see what his thoughts on everything are. Some of the other Rogues are going to be included in here, probably, as this _is_ Arkham Asylum. However, it's important to read through this chapter, because next chapter is the one you're all _dying_ to read. C;

**P.S. **Yeah, still don't have rights to the Joker. Or DC Comics, or anything related. I also don't own Freidrich Nietzsche. Sadly.

**P.P.S.** Please review! Another big thanks to Katurz for reviewing again! And a very special thanks to my beta. 3 Now, on to the action...

* * *

It had been four months.

Almost four months to the day since the Joker had been taken into custody.

Almost four months since Rita first fallen into a painful depression.

Four months. Four long, painful months. Forced by desperation, Letta was out on the streets again, working nearly every night. Brutality was rampant in the higher payers. She often could hardly walk from the pain at the end of each night, but the pay she earned was enough to support her and the catatonic Rita. The woman hadn't budged from the room, consuming mostly beer as her source of caloric intake, occasionally something of substance when Letta forced her. Other than that, Rita was non-existent. And Letta was sick of it.

"Rita, you have to stop this." Her back ached from the bruising she had gotten the night before. The man a thing for bondage and handcuffs, and though he had paid surprisingly well, the pain he caused wouldn't fade for weeks. The skin around her wrists had purpled and swollen as a result of the handcuffs. And that was just the beginning of the damage.

"Rita..." Her voice cracked. "Rita, I can't keep this up. You've...you've gotta snap out of this..." Rita didn't stir. Letta sighed and stumbled into the bathroom. It was no use. Rita was lost to her. And there was little chance she'd be coming back. Determined to wash the blood caked onto her small frame, she started the shower, waiting until the water was near scalding to step in. The hot water wouldn't last long, she knew that, but while she had it, she'd burn her skin and not care. Anything to wash the traces of blood and misery from her. She let her eyes slip close as she sagged against the tiled side of the shower.

It was only after hearing a dull thud echo around the back of her brain did she come too. She opened her eyes to see the water turning red near her face and a sharp pain shooting through her skull. She had fallen asleep in the shower. _In the shower_. And collapsed, smacking her nose on the moulded floor. Groaning and clutching at her nose, the girl blindly grouped at the wall, trying to find the shower handle. The water suddenly went cold and she let out a wail. Great. Just great. Finally finding the handle and shutting the damn thing off, she tripped over the ledge and collapsed on the floor, one hand clasping her spurting nose, the other folded over her chest, trying to rub some warmth back into her bony frame. Snorting at her misfortune, she rose shakily and grasped at the damp towel on the hook, pulling it about her trembling body, clinging to relief that it provided. She waited a few moments longer before walking out, blood dripping from her nose as she did so. She opened the door and froze.

Dressed in a crisp black suit and matching pants, a man she had never seen before stood in the centre of their apartment room, a pistol loosely held in his hand. He looked up to face he abruptly, the expression on his face matching what she assumed to be her own look of surprise.

"Is Rita alive?" The blunt question that came from his mouth shocked her. She shrugged. A mob man, then. Obviously had known whoever it was that Rita had been engaged to, or Rita herself. She allowed herself a faint nod. The man returned the gesture, seemingly satisfied.

"You're Letta, then, I take it?" Sharp one, and knew a lot. Letta felt her legs tense. He did have a pistol in his hand, after all. She nodded once again, eyeing said weapon warily. Seeing her discomfort, he chuckled and pocketed the thing, leaving his hands in his pockets.

"Can you tell Rita that she's part of the family now, with 'r without Cap? She's been shirking her responsibilities, n' that isn't sitting right with the rest of us. Tell her to get her act together, or we'll take you in her place." Letta paled. Then bobbed her head meekly. The man laughed.

"Skittish little mouse, aren't ya? Probably aren't cut out for mob work, you're just a whore, after all." Still laughing, the man sauntered out from the apartment.

"I hate that sonuvabitch." Rita had risen, a faint fire in her eyes, a look of lividness that Letta had assumed she'd never see again. "He was always competing with Cap for top spot with Sal. And now that...Cap..." She paused, then dropped it. "I've got to go, Letta. He's right, I guess. I'm sorry for..." Rita paused, catching sight of the condition of Letta's mostly exposed body.

"Oh, Letta, tesorina..." Shame surged across the chiselled features of her face. "I'm so sorry, tesorina. You take the next week off. I'll work." Letta nodded vaguely, averting her eyes, feeling increasingly self-conscious by the second. But, Rita was up, moving around the room, throwing on clothes and brushing her hair into a manageable mat.

"Be back later, tesorina. I mean that, this time." Letta sat on the edge of the bed, nodding vaguely. Rita kissed her forehead, and with that, she was gone. Her nose finally stopping its fountain of blood, Letta collapsed onto the mattress, sleep overtaking her without regard to her nakedness.

* * *

(Warning, this next section may contain some graphic violence...viewer discretion is advised.)

* * *

_It was so...boring here. There was nothing to do but watch the doctors hurry around, everyone panicking and losing their minds._ He felt his eyes roll unintentionally. _None of them, none of these...schemers, these manipulators, they don't have any kind of intelligence, any kind of intellect._ A scowl crossed his face, a rare display of emotion. They had refused him his greasepaint, in essence, removing his stage presence. But he still had the scars, and... He smirked, thumbing the small pen that he had swiped off of his doctor while in 'therapy'. Even with morphine pumping through his blood and the continual electroshock therapy, he hadn't lost his mind, no, he wasn't crazy, not quite yet, no, no no no. The straightjacket was getting irritating as well, especially how sloppily they had buckled it this time especially. He had figured out how to escape from the straightjacket in a week, and just never bothered to escape, not yet, wanting to see how interesting things would get with the other so-called criminals. He spit. They weren't criminals, no, they were nothings. They were driven by greed, fear, or other motives. They all had something to lose, something to strive for, something to protect. They were so...degenerate. He spat again. Just the thought of the half-breed criminals made him want to murder something or someone. It didn't matter who or what. Preferably a small child, though. He enjoyed the screams. He cackled madly to himself, earning an uncomfortable look from the orderly who stood outside his door. He hated Arkham. It was a bad joke, thriving with the most hypocritical people he had ever known. These professionals, they attempted to fix people who weren't broken. He wasn't crazy, he wasn't. And yet, they kept trying to get into his head, trying to figure out "who he really was".

He didn't know.

He didn't remember.

He didn't care.

And in their efforts to fix people, they made everything so much worse. He chuckled again, more to himself than to scare the orderlies. _Electroshock therapy __**really**__ doesn't help the brain too much, doc._ He cackled louder. He knew there were vivid burn marks on his temples, and they would probably remain there. But, he didn't care.

They raped their patients. They hadn't gotten to him yet, he'd been far too violent, gouging out an orderly's eye and biting the ear off another. They'd kept their distance. But he saw one of the doctors brutally going at it on one of the patients, the whole time shouting at the patient. The orderlies just watched, sometimes kicking the downed man in the head, or side while the doctor had his fun. Civilized. Real civilized. It didn't matter, though.

He was breaking out tonight.

And all he needed was the fountain pen that he held in his hand.

And of course, a little bit of...

He abruptly got up and rammed himself against the door, smacking his head against it hard enough to clear the traces of morphine from his head, all while dislocating his shoulders to free himself from the straightjacket. His arms were free. He threw his head back and laughed, throwing himself against another wall, waiting for the orderlies to come running in.

And run in they did.

Like pigs to a (s)laughterhouse. The first one came at him and he whipped his arm out, stabbing the pen deep into his eye socket, jamming his hand into the man's utility belt and grabbing the baton he carried. With that, it was easy. The baton struck the next man in the head with enough force for a resounding crack to be heard. He dropped to the floor without another sound. He yanked the blood coated pen from the dead man's eye socket and turned his attention to the third man standing before him, looking terrified. He snorted, a smile tugging at his scarred lips.

And killed him.

Humming softly to himself, he sauntered from the cell, a slight skip to his step, snatching the keys to the asylum as he did so. Due to the late hour, there were only a few night guards out, it was fairly easy to avoid them and sneak into the control room, where he promptly killed the security guard and took the gun he had. And proceeded to open every cell in the asylum. A sinister chortle began rumbling deep in his chest, bubbling free in a crazed laugh. Freedom never tasted so sweet.

* * *

**P.P.P.S.** WOAH! What just happened? Haha, things are getting exciting now, aren't they? The next chapter is the one you've all been waiting for, I can promise you that, as for what happens? I think you know. C: Stay tuned!


	12. Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto

**Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto**

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**Author's Note:** AT LAST! The chapter you've been waiting for! Naturally, there will be plenty guest appearances, and just a warning, things are not at all how they seem at first... So brace yourselves. This one's going to be great.

**P.S.** I don't own anything that's not mine.

**P.P.S. Recap:** Rita's gotten back on her feet and gone back into the mob business, and the Joker is in the process of escaping... On to the story!

* * *

Letta sat, cross-legged on the bed, once again reading philosophy. The television, like always was running in the background, but due to the exceptionally poor reception, it mainly served as white noise for her to tune out.

About a week and a half had passed since Rita had 'recovered'. Lingering bouts of depression still plagued the woman, but other than that, the snarky attitude that Letta had missed so much had returned in full force. Rita had taken to the streets once, making a decent sum, but binge drinking when she got home, guilt of disgracing her dead lover overtaking her.

_"Now onto...top story... asylum...no Batman...stay off the..."_

The garbled voice from the television brought a depressing revelation. With Rita out for the night, Letta knew she would have to work. The few hundred dollars of funds was once again running low, and after having paid the month's rent on the apartment, it was work or starve.

Stripping, she gave herself a once-over in the mirror, nodding vaguely. The bruises and welts from her most recent encounter had healed fairly decently. The ones on her back were still an ugly yellow colour, but she assumed that that wouldn't be too much of an issue. Men usually weren't too fixated on her back. Other areas held their attention much more sufficiently.

Sighing, Letta pulled on tight jeans and a low swooping top. Not that there was anything to show. She sighed. It was a miracle she'd even managed to make any money at all. Pulling her long hair up into a tight bun, she assessed the makeup in the bathroom. The bags under her eyes had disappeared with the sleep she'd gotten over the past week, and to help attract attention, she decided that sultry, smoky eyes would be the best. Makeup wasn't her strongest suit, but she wasn't awful at it. The end product looked exceptional, if she did say so herself. Grabbing a tube of fire-engine red lipstick, she carefully applied it to her lips, making her cupid's bow exceptionally seductive, putting on gloss as a final touch to the pout. Pulling on the sweater she had received some time ago and a pair of high heels, she trotted out the door.

Thank God she'd had plenty of practice in high heels. But all the same...

_I hate these things, I hate these things. I hate these things._

The Red Light district was packed, drunken men stumbling everywhere. It was definitely a good night for business. If she was lucky, and if she had enough stamina, she probably would go for a double round. The accompanying exhaustion would be worth the money. Casually leaning against the brick wall by her corner in a pose she hoped was somewhat provocative, she waited for one of the drunks to find her. She didn't have to wait long. The scent of alcohol oozed off the burly man in waves, his hands were slabs of granite beside her head. His words were garbled and thick, but she understood how painful the night ahead was going to be. She simply smiled coyly and reached out to caress the purpled face. With a soft grunt, the man just plain keeled over. She froze. About to panic she knelt down and checked for a pulse. He wasn't dead, thankfully, just passed out. Standing again, she allowed herself a grim smile. If luck was on her side, perhaps the next man would be drunk enough to be gentle to her.

But Lady Luck had never really liked Letta. A hand suddenly grabbed her arm and jerked the poor girl backwards, until she collided into the attached body. She looked up, frightened. She couldn't make out his features, it was too dark in the alley, but he was tall, and judging by the way she could feel his muscles bunching against her, fairly lean as well. Without a word, he pressed seven crisp, one-hundred dollar bills into her hand. Letta was shocked.

He was paying up front.

The only ones that paid up front were the pigs of society.

The men that enjoyed brutalizing women in any way possible.

The past four months that she had been working on a nightly basis had taught her a lot. One, there were three kinds of men. The angry businessman, rough, but short; the drunk who passed out halfway through; and the sadists, who enjoyed all kinds of sick degradation of prostitutes. Two, there were usually only drunks and businessmen. And three, in the past three months, there had been rumours of an incredibly sick sadist going through the red light district and hiring any street walker he could find. He'd already had his way with four of the street walkers that she knew. And he was a monster. He was so brutal, it took two months for one of the poor girls to be able to stand up again. A sick bastard who enjoyed shoving metal rods up the women's asses. Then raping then as they screamed, handcuffed to the wall.

If this was that rumoured sadist...

The night was going to be painful.

He pushed eight more hundred dollar bills into her hand. The money was too good of an offer. Reluctantly, she curled her fingers over the bill.

Instantly, the man took off, nearly yanking her arm out of the socket as he dragged her along. The silhouettes of the homeless in the alleys were hardly a blur as he darted through the darkened streets, weaving through the shadows, poor Letta stumbling along after him. At one point, he rounded a corner so quickly, she smacked her shoulder into the jagged brick wall, tearing a hole through the jacket she wore. She realized that he was pulling her to the Narrows.

Where the sadist was.

Despair flooded over her. She would be lucky if she were able to walk within the next few weeks. She tightened her hand around the crumpled bills in her hand. Nearly half a year of paid rent would be worth it, and silencing the little voices of terror that screamed in her head, she concentrated on keeping up with the man, and any little details she could pick out about him, to warn her 'co-workers'.

But there was nothing. Nothing she could see. The entirety of his persona was obscured by a heavy trench coat. Even his hands were hidden, covered by gloves. There was nothing to see. She hardly register when the man banged through a faded door and into a small apartment room.

He halted abruptly.

She smacked her nose against his back.

It started bleeding again.

She let out a soft gasp and clasped her hand over her nose, cringing internally.

The man slowly turned to face her.

His face remained a shaded blur, the only light in the cramped room coming from a lone, flickering light bulb somewhere behind them. The only sound, aside from a dripping faucet was the sound of their breathing – his quiet, hers heavy and ragged from running.

And suddenly, there was more.

He had kissed her. His lips, chapped and torn, pressed against her with a sense of vigour, a strange, desperate enthusiasm. Within seconds she was kissing him back, the gesture hollow in the anticipation of the pain to come. Gloved fingers curled over her own, lifting, pulling her hands up, further...further... to rest on his... face?

Her palms touched something rough, ragged and very, _very_ familiar.

She gasped.

Fell away from him, her back slamming into the wall. Hesitating.

The man had turned to stone. He hadn't budged.

Tentatively, adrenaline and fear pulsing through her veins, she reached out, the tips of her fingers grazing the ridges of his face, caressing the Glasgow smile that carved its way up from the cracked lips. He batted her hand away, moving with cruel, inhuman speed, slamming her back up against the wall, the hood falling away from his face to reveal a snarl twisting the familiar face.

"Say, you look nervous, and since you seem to like them so much, want to know how I got them?" He flicked open a pocketknife, holding it flat against her cheek. Her wide grey eyes stared up at him in terror, small chest heaving with the weight of panic. He smirked in spite of himself. _So I guess she really wasn't any –_

"_Man cannot...learn to forget..."_ She paused, gasping for air. "_but...hangs on to the past: however far or fast he runs, that chain runs...with him._" Another deep breath of air. "I...really don't care. About them." A vague, weak gesture towards his face. "Your past... your chains you carry... I don't want...or need to know..." Her lips trembled into a vague smile. "They...suit you." He froze.

And she did too, staring at her terrified reflection in his dark eyes.

His eyes narrowed, and he studied her for a second.

A second more.

And threw back his head and laughed.

"YOU! You are just too good. You see, y'see, this, _THIS,_ is why I missed you."

* * *

**P.P.P.S.** Thank yous are now being moved here – a big BIG thank you to my darling beta, and to Sinister Smles, MidnightFedora and Katurz for reviewing! I hope you stick with the story and continue to enjoy! Thanks you for the support!


	13. In un smorfia il singhiozzo e 'l dolor

**In un smorfia il singhiozzo e 'l dolor, Ah!**

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**Author's Note:** This chapter is starting to go places! (I've edited this one thanks to my dearest beta. C;) Enjoy!

**P.S.** I don't own anything, like I never have. So I still don't own anything I don't own. C:

* * *

**RECAP: **

_"They...suit you." He froze. _

_And she did too, staring at her terrified reflection in his dark eyes._

_His eyes narrowed, and he studied her for a second._

_A second more._

_And threw back his head and laughed._

_ "YOU! You are just too good. You see, y'see this. THIS is why I missed you."_

* * *

Letta blinked at this. There was a heavy pause, the air thick with tension as he gauged her reaction. Charismatic, unpredictable and completely wild, he said whatever came to mind. She hadn't noticed the small smile that had found its way to her face, a funny warmth settling in her chest at his words. Then with a start, she realized how he'd managed to go undetected.

He wore no makeup.

Granted, the hollows under his eyes were significantly darker than most people, probably stained from years of wearing so much greasepaint, the skin of his face slightly paler than the rest of him, probably for the same reason. And then, another, startling revelation.

He was handsome.

Frighteningly so.

The scars added to his beauty, in their own, crooked kind of way. It definitely set him apart, but they didn't define him, rather...

Proved him.

The saccharine smile, by itself, voided him of humanity. But the scars...

The scars...

They gave something back.

Something back to that inhumane smile, something back to those bleak, desolate eyes.

He smirked at her with a faint snort, shifting slightly, the tips of his fingers drumming against the faded fabric of his pants. That was another thing about him, Letta realized. He was always in motion. Constantly moving, constantly thinking. Uncontrollable and unpredictable, almost like a force of nature. A nature that was undefined, ambiguous.

Free.

That was what terrified Gotham about the Joker. How absolutely free he was. From everything. From societal standards, rules, morals. Everything.

And when he explained it... he sounded to sane. He understood the nature of humanity so well, and spoke of it like he was on the outside looking in.

"_He who cannot obey himself will be commanded. That is the nature of living creatures._" He looked at her sharply, lips pulled pack over yellowed teeth.

"You, you just _love_ that man, love to quote him." He paused, though, weighing her(his?) words. "That's why there are so many being controlled by the corruption in this city. They can't obey themselves. I can obey myself. I don't have rules, y'see? There's nothing for me to obey." He hooted with laughter at this.

"You see, it's because I don't think. I just...do things. Kinda like you, you and I are a lot alike. I do whatever comes to mind, and you do whoever comes around." He grinned at her expectantly, and he wasn't disappointed. A full blown smile had planted itself on her face, the corners of her eyes crinkling, a whisper of a giggle slipping out. But it was enough. Her smile was real. He snorted at that. At the humour of it all. Here he was, the most feared criminal Gotham had ever known to date, sitting in a cramped apartment, with a common whore. Laughing with her. Wanting her to laugh with him. And she was smiling. And it was real.

She wasn't afraid of him.

She probably was, he thought. The skittish thing jumped at everything and everyone. It had shocked him that she had even taken the money when she knew about the rumours of some sadist on the loose. He swiped his tongue over his lips.

_Full of surprises, just full of surprises. Just doesn't disappoint._

He rose suddenly, dusting off the thin layer of silt that clung to his pants, glancing around the small apartment room as he did so. It was much too quiet. He didn't like it. The more he could hear that accursed faucet, the more irritated he got. And he wasn't intent on getting irritated. So, he flipped on the radio. He couldn't name who it was, crooning over the airwaves. Oh well. It wasn't that important.

He sat down next her.

"Do you know _why_ I do what I do?" She paused at that. He drummed his fingers on the ground, waiting for her reply, curious about what it would be.

"I think...I think that you're the absolution of Nietzsche's ideals. The perfection of humanity, free from morals..." She paused again, racking her brain for a way to explain the next part. "_Fanatics are picturesque, mankind would rather see gestures than listen to reasons._ You...you want to prove to humanity, how...ugly they are because they are so degenerate, because they've filled their minds and imposed such complex and hypocritical morals and rules..." She started, realizing his face was once again, inches from hers. There was a flicker of something through his dark eyes, something like...

...pride?

...happiness?

She couldn't place it. She didn't dare try.

He gave her a fleeting smirk and stood and trotted through the door, shutting it behind him.

...

...

...

Her mind went blank.

Did he just..?

Had she been dreaming...?

What...?

At any rate, she was alone in a dingy apartment room, alone save for a dripping faucet, a radio, and some assorted pieces of furniture and clothes scattered through the room. _His_ clothes, she realized with a shock. Somehow the fact that the Joker wore normal clothes came as a shock to her, but, sure enough, the black, cotton boxers piled on a heap of various other clothes in the corner said as much. Letta felt blood rush to her face. She was a prostitute, she was used to seeing men, sometimes women, in various states of undress. But something about seeing the _Goddamn Joker's boxers_ laying on the floor made her blush uncontrollably. She tore her eyes away and walked to the radio, messing with the dial until she found a station that she liked, turning up the volume a bit. The reception wasn't the best, but it still carried the sound well enough.

_"Only you...can make this world...right..."_

She turned her attention to the rest of the room.

It poorly furnished and in an awful state of disarray. In addition to the mound of clothes shoved in the corner, paper littered the floor, spilling out from the small nightstand and from the dresser. Curious, she picked one up, quickly scanning over them.

He said he just did things...

But these ideas, these hypotheses, they were brilliant.

Formulations worked out to the smallest minuet particulars, the work of true genius, haphazardly scrawled on paper. Letta could hardy believe what she was reading. Quotes, drawings, sketches, everything. Inscribed in various pencils, pens...even crayon at a few places, on all mediums. Napkins, printer paper, scraps of magazines. It was incredible.

She sank down onto the bed, reading through a sloppily-written theory he had jotted down on a bit of a newspaper.

_Gotham loses their minds when I threaten authority, but why do they protect this authority? I suppose they haven't seen the mayor's past. Past affects perception, there's no such thing as a perfect human, only the illusion of one. Perhaps... perhaps to show Gotham the truth about Harvey Dent? No, Batman took the fall for him. Why did he? Batman is a symbol, it seems. What...Gotham needs him to be._..

She set it down and turned, gazing around the room again, looking for something else to study.

It was remarkable, how much of an enigma the man was. Everything he did was so methodical, but so random, she could hardly believe it. But he was a man, still. As Nietzsche seemed to say, the absolution of humanity. It was stunning. For a man as chaotic and disorganized as he though, the plainness of the room shocked her. The bed sheets were drab blue and rumpled in a heap, probably from being kicked off. There were various mismatched socks all about the floor. The wallpaper curled up at the edges, showing just how stained and dirtied the room was. But other than the clothes and paper, the room was surprisingly...empty. There was a small fridge in the corner, and a closet full of very expensive looking suits, but other than that...

She turned then and gasped, for the Joker was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

She fumbled for words, coming up blank. He had probably been watching her meander about his room, and the thought made her very uneasy. But looking at his expression, she almost could have sworn that he was as surprised as she.

But this was the Joker. He didn't get surprised.

"You, you're still here, you could have just...walked out the door, why didn't you, why didn't you leave?" Letta froze.

Why didn't she leave?

She could have just walked out.

Could have run away.

But yet...

_"...only you...can make the darkness...bright..."_ The radio vaguely registered in the background.

He leaned closer, his eyebrows knitting together. He swiped his tongue over his lips.

"And I **_still_** don't have my _makeup._"

..._What?_

Before she could react, before she could even open her mouth to reply, he kissed her again. Full on the lips. The first thought that came to mind was how strange it felt, the scars that cut through his bottom lip and the ones that tore from either end of his mouth. The second though came then. She was kissing him back. Without any kind of hesitation or reservation. She didn't have any idea why. She just...did.

She smiled at that, his words from earlier crossing her mind.

The Joker counted as a someone, too.

_"..Only you...alone...can thrill me like you..."_

Her fire engine red lipstick stained his lips, her fingertips caressed the jagged ridges that climbed up his cheeks.

"_People abstain, it is true: but the bitch Sensuality glares enviously out of all they do."_ She felt the sinister laugh rumble out from his chest.

"Introduce...a little anarchy, then."

_"..and fill my heart with love...for only you..."_

* * *

**P.P.P.S. **

A huge thank you to Midnight Fedora and Katurz for reviewing, once again!

_Please review, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!_


	14. Ridi, Pagliaccio

**Ridi, Pagliaccio**

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**Author's Note:** These next three chapters are going to be fairly long. The decision was to exclude the smut chapter (not a huge fan of writing the stuff, my beloved beta insisted... c:), so what went down... it could have been, or very much something. I'll leave that to your imagination. C; Please enjoy!

**P.S. **I don't own anything that's not mine. C;

* * *

It was time to make a grand reappearance back onto the stage known as Gotham. He'd been gone too long, the need to a chaos fix was burning in his veins. Too quiet, too dormant, Gotham had lain in a void, vacant of anything high profile. Gotham needed him, he thought with a chuckle. Pulling on a suit coat and brushing back the fading green hair he frowned at his reflection. He needed to dye his hair. He threw the suit coat to the floor and stormed about, carelessly throwing things here and there until he found the half empty bottle of green dye. Content at last, he stepped into the shower and proceeded to recolor his hair, humming a faint tune he had stuck in his head as he did so.

Satisfied that the colour was the deep, nearly black hue that he enjoyed so much, he stepped out, washed his hands, bent over the grime encrusted mirror, slathering the white greasepaint over his face, followed by the black that covered his eyes. He was nearly complete. He paused, allowing himself a faint huff at the memory of smearing the girl's lipstick over his own lips. He found it intriguing that the scars hadn't frightened her away, instead quoting Nietzsche (again) and telling him not to tell her. She was certainly an interesting one. He shrugged. If she got too attached, he'd kill her. Simple as that.

Something stirred in him at that thought, something he didn't like one bit. He chuckled, a high pitched and almost nervous sound, and promptly smacked his forehead against the mirror, the sudden shock of pain clearing his head. Still giggling slightly, he shoved his fingers into the red paint and with a quick swipe, he was happy again, a brilliant smile plastered on his white face. He sneered at the now cracked reflection.

_Showtime._

* * *

A nagging feeling at the back of her skull pulled her from her comatose state. Something had happened the night before, she was sure, but it was different. Instead of aches and soreness, there was just a tired lethargy in her bones. A feeling completely unfamiliar to her. She racked her brain, desperately trying to remember where she was, what had happened, who she...

She sat up with a start, looking around frantically. The room was abandoned, the heap of clothes slightly disturbed, a few bottles of shampoo and whatnot tossed on the floor, but other than that...

It was empty.

She was alone.

Alone, in the Joker's apartment room. She couldn't remember the events of the night before. She supposed that the shock of kissing the Joker kind of made her mind blank out. But she had awoken with her clothes on. Whether that meant that nothing had transpired, or that he had simply dressed her afterwards, she didn't care or particularly want to know. She digressed. She swung her legs out from under the thin cotton blankets, giving a soft hiss of displeasure when her toes hit the freezing tile floor. She hated Gotham in the winter.

But none of that now, she had to hurry back to Rita. The woman may have indulged her kleptomaniac nature, and there might be new clothes for her to wear.

With a heavy sigh, Letta pulled her(his?) hooded jacket on again, and slipped through the door, hardly taking time to note the open cans of greasepaint in front of a cracking mirror.

* * *

She arrived back at Rita's apartment about half an hour later. The bus ride had been awful, as always. Public transportation was a disgrace to the city, the only good thing that had ever happened had been the train system, and even then, the thing had been a festering wound to the city before it met its demise at the hands of the Batman.

The door was already open when she arrived on their floor.

Letta paused, tentatively listening. There was no noise. Cautiously creeping forward, she pushed open the door, tensing to run. Not that she'd get very far in the abominable heels.

A very stiff looking Rita greeted her.

She was sitting on the bed, her hands in her lap, her eyes flickering nervously over at the hulking man to her right. He was dressed immaculately, a deep burgundy tie tucked into a grey, pinstripe suit.

Rita smiled nervously at her.

"Ragazza..." She began, and hesitated, unsure of if to go on or not. "Your parents were...Italian, yes?" Letta froze. She never had talked about her parents to Rita. Carefully she nodded. Rita gave another thin smile.

"Manico here told me that the mob has formally invited you to come with us to the opera tonight, courtesy of Saul Ghar." The look in Rita's eyes told her that this invitation was one that she would not be refusing. Letta forced a small smile, feeling like choking.

"I will make it." The words tasted like poison in her mouth, as if she were signing her own death warrant. The man's sneer turned perverse and his eyes roamed over her figure. Letta didn't care. It wasn't as if she had a figure to show off. All the same... the eyes dragged lower and lower, and Letta could feel the tips of her ears burning. She looked accusingly at Rita. The woman's eyes were filled with pain and apology. So she had been forced into this. The man gave a snort and stalked from the room.

"Rita, take your hard earned cash and buy you and the twig some dresses. The cash was really _hard_ earned." Rita was silent as he kicked the door shut behind him.

"Rita, why-" Letta was cut off as Rita let out a scream of frustration, hurling a chair at the door. The wood splintered. Letta was about to console her, but she was livid. Stalking about, she began ranting in furious Italian about the audacity of the pig headed... her words escalated to graphic and highly inappropriate descriptions very quickly. When she arrived at the vulgar explanation of what she intended to do to the man if ever given the chance, Letta felt her stomach churn just at the gory detail of Rita's plans. Letta decided to shower and let her cool off steam. It didn't surprise her to hear random bits of objects being thrown about over the noise of the running water.

When she stepped out of the shower, Rita had regained control, but the look of unbridled rage that burned in her eyes was unmistakable. Letta decided to take her chances.

"What opera do they want to go to?" She held her breath, waiting for an answer.

"Pagliacci." The woman said at last. "The opera Pagliacci. The one with the clown." She sneered. "How _fitting._ That's all they are, anyways." Letta wasn't surprised.

"Who was the man?"

"Manico Tosse. Cocaine addict who worked for Maroni, now working for the new guy, Saul Ghar. I don't like him. He's slimy."

"Why do they want me?"

"You're Italian, and a prostitute. They need more mob whores." Letta blinked. "Speaking of, where did you go last night?" Letta froze and quickly shrugged noncommittally.

"Work." Rita's mouth made a small 'o' shape. "Shall we go shopping?" Rita scowled again, but nodded with a flustered sigh.

"Tesorina...I will get you out of here." She murmured softly. "I promise." Letta only nodded.

* * *

Shopping was uneventful; the mall was mostly desolate. It was only mid afternoon on a Tuesday, and as most people were working or at school, it was fairly deserted. And the girls loved it.

Granted, Rita had been angry at first, Letta's enthusiasm for actual, _nice clothes_ eventually got to her, and the older woman relaxed as well. The two romped around, snatching dresses from hangers, trying to outdo each other with which dress could be uglier. Then Letta struck gold.

Or, well, wine red.

Rita couldn't believe her eyes.

The dress fit her small frame well, holding to her small figure until around her thigh, branching out then. The deep colour of the dress accentuated the pale whiteness of her skin and the bleakness of her gray eyes, giving her a vibrancy that Rita had never seen in her. She was twenty six at this point. A woman. The girl was so emaciated that it hardly ever seemed like it, though. But now...now...

Letta caught her gaze, her eyebrows knitting together.

"Rita?" The woman said nothing. "Rita?"

"Letta, you're buying that dress." Letta blinked. Then looked in the mirror.

She couldn't have been more shocked if Batman had shown up in a pink tutu on a unicorn. She looked...pretty. There was life to her normally dull features. She nodded numbly.

The rest of the day was uneventful, as it didn't take long for Rita to grab a dress. The woman looked good in everything. The opera was to be the next night.

Letta paced anxiously, frightened of what might happen. She hated the confusion that plagued her. Why an opera, of all places? And an opera about clowns? She knew the mob was high class, but... she didn't know. But her questions could wait.

She'd ask them at the opera tomorrow.

* * *

**P.P.S.** Thank you SOOOO much to KingSquatch, Midnight Fedora and Katurz for reviewing! You guys are the best! I hope you enjoyed the 'open interpretation' take! c:


	15. Sul tuo amore infranto

**Sul tuo amore infranto**

* * *

**Author's Note:** This chapter is going to be fantastic, I can promise you that, and well worth the wait, too. I was on a short hiatus, frolicking about in the Star Wars universe (Sorry.) (Not really.) (#padmeandanakinforever) Anywho! I have a great conclusion to this story in mind, and after that, a special epilogue full of all the little tricks and insider things I put in this story! So, stay tuned!

**P.S. **I still don't own anything...unfortunately. Otherwise the Joker would be a stripper in a bar. I think it's a good thing that I don't own anything.

* * *

_"I'm sorry miss...miss Barzel, but your child...you've had a miscarriage, miss Barzel."_

_Her heart was hammering in her chest. She hadn't even realized she was pregnant, she'd never gotten drunk, never gone out on blind dates, never really dated, never had..._

_Rastor. Peter Rastor._

_She had been carrying that sick man's child for two months. The sudden burst of pain she had gone through after she had fallen, drunk, out of the back of a pickup truck must have killed the child._

_That also explained all the vomiting she had been doing in the mornings._

_"No...no...oh, God, no..." The whispered words tore from her cracking lips, all of a sudden becoming painfully aware of the needles in her arms and the countless machines that surrounded her._

_No, no, no..._

_And there were her parents, standing in the doorway, looks of open horror on their faces._

_"We paid for your education, your college, everything, and you sleep around with your professors as payment?" Her father was hysterical his dark eyes flashing in the blinding hospital lights._

_"Gill, stop, it's not her fault, Letta would never do that to us!" Reau frantically tried to reason with her raging husband, the obvious pain in her voice all too clear._

_"You are not part of this family any longer! I won't have your foolishness and promiscuity damaging our family name!" He bellowed, and at once stormed from the room. Her mother stood in his wake, her shoulders slumped, a shadow of her normal self._

_"Letta, darling... I'm so sorry." Her voice broke, tears spilling from her eyes. "Letta, I love you. Goodbye." Her mother disappeared. A dark chasm opened up beneath her feet, the beeping machines around her turning into grotesque creatures, needles for hands and blank screens for eyes. They screamed around her, louder, louder... closing in..._

_The needles were in her skin, digging deeper and ripping her..._

Letta awoke with a start, breathing heavy, drenched in a cold sweat. Wearily dragging the back of her hand across her brow, she gave a heavy sigh.

More nightmares. Heaving out another sigh, she back down onto the pillow. She had no choice but to sleep. With a final sigh of resignation, Letta shut her eyes, returning to her nightmares, praying, oddly enough, that tomorrow would never come.

* * *

Tomorrow had arrived all too soon.

Rita spent half the day fussing over Letta's hair, mumbling some nonsense about first impressions under her breath.

"Damn, tesorina. I don't even know how you manage to put up with all of this hair! How can you even work with this?" The tall woman fought with the mass of bleached locks for a moment, working out the various braids that she had interwoven in her hair at all times.

Rita huffed irritably. "I'm chopping this all off." Letta shrieked and clasped her hands over her hand, diving off the chair that her older friend had wrestled her into.

"NEVER!" Rita grabbed a pair of scissors and began chasing the smaller girl around the room, completely disregarding the fact that the both of them were in little more than undergarments. It was strange, she decided, to so carelessly run around an dank apartment room in the heart of Gotham, laughing all the while. She paused her pursuit, frowning. No, she couldn't remember the last time she had laughed like this. Hell, she couldn't remember a time that she had even momentarily been so carefree. Not even when Cap had proposed.

_Cap..._

Letta had paused, seeing her friend's hesitation.

"Rita?" The taller woman suddenly turned and sprang at her, and with a shriek of laughter, Letta was running again. The two were so engrossed in their play that when Letta burst out from the room and ran down the hallway, Rita on her heels, they didn't even realize they had left the room. It was only when they collapsed in a giggling heap at the top of the stairs did they realize they weren't in their apartment anymore. Letta's cheeks flushed brilliant red and she darted back into the room without a second thought. Rita, however, remained on the floor, giggling like a young girl all over again. She missed being able to laugh freely. It had been so long. Sighing, and ignoring the unabashed stare of the cleaning lady, she walked back to her room, scooping up the scissors that had been tossed aside as she did so. It was time to be serious. The opera was still hours away, but in order to keep Letta alive, she had to look her best to please the mob.

And the mobsters were picky.

If she looked just subpar, they'd kill her before they let her in the opera house. Rita couldn't let that happen. Not to her best and only friend.

_Best friend..._

Now there was a term she'd never used before, not even when she was just a street rat. A bit more reflection led to the realization that Letta was indeed the closest person she had ever known. Rita's lips set in a thin line. Like hell the mob was going to hurt her.

"Letta, come on, let's get this done."

* * *

About an hour later, and Letta's hair was finally manageable. Not just manageable, but beautiful, if Rita did say so herself. The normally tangled white mass had been thoroughly brushed out and combed, then curled, and finally, pulled into a pile on her head, long curls spilling out, and a few tendrils brushing down the sides of her face. Rita was immensely pleased with the outcome. The next issue was getting her into the dress without messing up her hair, and due to the strapless nature of the dress and the lack of any kind of substance on Letta's body, it was a fairly easy process. Rita sighed and looked at the gaunt face of her friend. Makeup time.

After relentless fussing for another good hour, Rita stepped back, allowing Letta an irritated huff. But, damn. The girl looked like some sort of dark mistress. A good layer of foundation disguised the sallow cheeks and deep bags under her eyes, a touch of pink blush gave her a slight glow. The meticulous work that had been done on her eyes paid off. Gold eye shadow faded to black in a sultry smoky eye, the mascara made her rather short lashes seem long and dark, faming the slate coloured eyes. To touch it off, her lips were glossed a soft pink, accentuating the feminine nature of her build. There was little doubt left in Rita's mind; the mob was going to love the girl. At least certain parts of them would. And at the very least, that was all that mattered.

An odd thought struck her then, and she looked at the smaller girl curiously. It went against their rules, but Rita had to ask. At least before she lost her to the mob.

"Letta?" The girl glanced up at her with a questioning grunt. Rita hesitated, not sure how to word her question.

"Letta, you don't take birth control, and you don't use any of the other methods we do. How did you not get pregnant for the four months you worked daily?" A look of panic flashed through Letta's eyes. Then resignation.

"I can't have children." She whispered. Rita couldn't stop the look of unabashed shock that crossed her face. Before she had a chance to say anything, Letta continued.

"I didn't know I was pregnant and I got drunk," Peter's face crossed her mind, how brutal he had been that time. He hadn't cared that it was in the back of a truck, or that she was drunk. He just wanted to take her as painfully as he could. And when she had fought back, he shoved her, causing her to fall out of the vehicle. She shook the memory from her head. "I miscarried. The fight and the toll of the baby on my body damaged my insides, I can't remember exactly what the doctors said but...I can't get pregnant anymore." Rita stared, taking it all in.

"Oh, tesorina...that's why you turned to the streets." Letta nodded and gave a vague shrug.

"It's not important anymore." She said simply. "Now, your turn to get dressed." Rita sighed reluctantly and let her friend brush out her choppy bob of hair and apply some makeup, her mind miles away.

Another hour passed, and Rita called Manico to let him know the two of them were ready, ignoring his extraordinarily crude comments he made on the phone. After she hung up, she bit her lip, missing her deceased fiancé, absentmindedly messing with the gold band around her ring finger. He at least had dignity.

* * *

They arrived at the opera some time later. The sun was just beginning to near the horizon, staining the sky yellow, pink, and blood red. The hues reflected off every panel of the skyscrapers , filling the normally grey world with vibrant colour.

Manico had driven them to the opera house in one of his best vehicles, a Lamborghini of fineness comparable to that of Bruce Wayne. With one exception – Manico had killed the previous owner. Ah, details. They stepped out; Rita walking by herself, Letta holding onto Manico's arm. She hated the man already, but he had insisted that she needed assistance. Being wiser to their treatment of those that didn't live up to standards, she reluctantly complied. Letta was surprised from the few lusty glances she was given. But, with Rita by her side, she was thankfully overlooked by most. Manico was boasting of his manliness and of his manhood, all of which Letta found difficult to believe was remotely true. Regardless of what she thought, he ushered her to a remote seat on the side of the audience, a balcony with just enough space for two. Letta had little doubt of how he planned to pass the opera. As soon as they were seated, she turned to face him, doing her best to appear sensual.

"What's the name of this opera, anyway?" She asked, keeping her voice soft. He scoffed.

"What's it to you, anyways? You're just a whore. But, it's called Pagliacci, don't pretend that someone like you knows what it's about." But know she did. At least, the background of it. She couldn't remember the exact premise or the characters, but she knew it involved scandal.

Of course it did, why else would the mob go to the opera?

She sighed and braced herself as the lights dimmed and a lone man walked out onto stage. Immediately, her curiosity was piqued.

It was a clown.

No, not the infamous Joker, but a rather thin, wiry man with his face painted into a smile, black tears painted beneath his eyes. He was giving some monologue about how clowns were humans as well, how they had feelings...

Oh.

Manico's lips were moving on her neck, his hand sliding up under her dress. She didn't want to be distracted, she actually wanted to watch the opera. If Manico was doing...things, she wouldn't be able to. Thinking fast, Letta moved his hand away, giving him a coy look.

"Now, now," she breathed against his neck. "let's not rush this..." Manico seemed to like the suggestion and settled for kissing every bit of exposed flesh above the dress line. That she could live with.

_The stage was set, all the actors in place. Canio, the lead, was a man in a commedia troupe. He was announcing to the village the spectacular play that would be in order tonight, beginning an hour before sunset. The villagers disperse, and Nedda, Canio's wife was introduced to the audience._

_The woman who played Nedda had thick, curly black hair, and soft, doe-like eyes. Canio, a tall, broad shouldered man was highly possessive of her, and it was clear to see why._

_"Canio, Canio, Nedda's cheating on you with Tonio!" The villagers joker, seeing Tonio's eagerness to assist Nedda with every task. Canio only laughed at the suggestion._

_"I may act a fool in the play, but trust me, I will not tolerate any other man making advances on my beautiful wife." He kissed the blushing woman on the brow gently and walked off the villagers and Tonio following, leaving Nedda behind._

The opera progressed. Manico was becoming more anxious. His hands were slipping down the front of her dress. Letta ignored him, engrossed in the play.

_Silvio slipped out from the bar where Canio and the rest had gone to drink. Within moments of joining Nedda, it became clear that he was her secret lover._

_"Nedda, elope with me after the play! You'll never have to be with Canio again!" Nedda was frightened, but agreed, her love for Silvio too strong._

_Just then Canio came back, and chased Silvio off._

_"I will always be yours!" Nedda shouted after Silvio's retreating form. Enraged, Canio yanked out a knife pressing it to Nedda._

_"TELL ME WHO IT IS!" He bellowed in her face. "TELL ME!" Nedda, terrified didn't move. Beppe, another actor, grabbed the knife away._

_"No! Canio! We can discuss this after the play! You have to get ready, now!" Canio froze, muscles taut, then slumped down in his chair._

_"Alright."_

The rest of the actors vacated the stage, it was Canio's time to give the most important performance of the opera.

_"Recitar! Mentre preso dal delirio..."_ _Act! While in delirium.._.

Manico was moving his hands up her thighs, fed up with waiting.

_"Non so più quel che dico…"_ _I no longer know what I say..._

"Manico!" Letta whispered with a squeak. This only encouraged the man.

_"...e quel che faccio!" Or what I do!_

It was too late to stop him, Letta could only pray that her little gasps weren't distracting the audience.

_"Eppur e d'uopo, sforzati!" And yet it's necessary to make an effort!_

Letta focused on breathing normally, ignoring the bursts of stars that danced through her vision.

_"Bah! Sei tu forse un uom?" Bah! Are you not a man?_

Manico had pulled her onto his lap by this point, his body making it all too clear that this was only the beginning of his plans for her that night.

_"Tu se Pagliaccio!" You are a clown!_

A loud bang.

Startled, Manico pulled away from Letta, letting the poor girl catch her breath. Another.

Gunshots.

The lights over the stage went out. Aside from a few panicked screams from the women in the audience, it was silent.

The lights came back on and Letta couldn't stop herself from gasping in shock.

"Good evening, ladies and gentle**man**... even though you..._civilized_ people are enjoying your little...little music fair here, I'm pleased to present to you... tonight's entertainment!"

* * *

**P.P.S.** WHAT JUST HAPPENED. As you can see, things are _really _ taking off...what will the next chapter bring?

A HUGE thank you to Katurz, Misplaced Levity, MidnightFedora and 3 for reviewing, and a special thank you to my beta!

_Please review, I hope you enjoyed it!_


	16. Intermission

**Intermission**

Hello! Sorry for the long delay, I've been busy beyond belief recently. This is just to say that I am alive, and I am working out an update or two for you all... but after I revise the rest of the story. In the coming month, I'm going to be reworking the previous chapters. Not significantly, mind you, but enough to make it easier to read and flow better. After taking a break from this, it seems like I've been awful negligent in how I've been writing, not fully explaining everything that's going on to you, my poor audience. (I'm sorry!) So! Bear with me here, and I'll have these updates out soon!

- R. Hellsing


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